


Harry Potter and the Champions of Avalon

by isoscelesfish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen, Mind Manipulation, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isoscelesfish/pseuds/isoscelesfish
Summary: Once again, something strange is happening to Harry Potter, and as usual, it isn't his fault. While cooking breakfast for his overweight cousin, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Flip-Bacon receives a mysterious message that strongly resembles a prompt from one of Dudley's computer games. With less than a month to plan for what may be the end of modern civilization, Harry is confronted with several shocking truths that leave him questioning his place in both the magical and the muggle world.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. The Open Door

**Author's Note:**

> _**Obligatory Note:** While I claim all rights to the following plot and prose, I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. This work was created purely for personal enjoyment. You are welcome to download, print, or otherwise archive this work offline, but please do not claim it as your own, attempt to profit off it, or upload it to any other site without my consent. Updates may or may not happen in a timely manner, and I apologize prematurely for leaving you hanging. Also, the title may change._

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lowly muggleborn wakes the gods and kicks off the apocalypse.

PROLOG

The Open Door

“In the depths of the ministry of magic, there is a door that is kept locked at all times. It contains a force that is at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than the forces of nature.” \- J. K. Rowling

True love is, of course, impossible to replicate, but the natural spring in the department of mysteries is the closest thing to liquid love the world may ever know. Prolonged exposure to the surrounding air causes strange effects in wizards, witches, magical creatures, squibs, and muggles, the most common of which are manic euphoria, hallucinations, and a loss of inhibitions. Many non-magical sentients also experience a temporary magical surge and recurring delusions of grandeur. 

With the invention of amortentia in the late 1800s, the mystery of ‘Cupid’s Barrow’ became a less vital area of study, and when human testing fell out of favor, progress ground to a standstill. ‘Researching’ the spring became something of a hazing ritual for new Unspeakables. Few made it to the water before giving up, but the rare case of contact generally resulted in easily reversible conditions like spontaneous gender or species reassignment, age regression or progression, or a compulsion to speak in limericks or rhymes. In one memorable case, a fresh recruit became an angry swarm of bees, and it took the Head Unspeakable months to piece him back together.

Charles A. Mayhugh was not aware of this tradition when he joined the department after the fall of You-Know-Who. With record-breaking NEWT scores and a master's in chemistry, he was uniquely qualified for magical research—perhaps more so than many of his pureblood colleagues, though you’d never know that by the way they treated him. As a matter of fact, his appointment had little to do with his qualifications and everything to do with post-war politics. Charles was muggleborn, and few wizards allowed him to forget his heritage. In a fit of vindictive pride, his supervisor assigned him to Cupid’s Barrow and neglected to update his posting. Instead, Charles’s hilarious mishaps became a running joke, especially when he started testing muggle safety gear.

Little did they know, the ‘poor little mudblood’ was having the time of his life. As a student of magic and science, he approached the spring with the imagination of an alchemist and the rational mind of a chemist. After perfecting a suit that negated the effects of the mist, Charles was free to while the years away in the depths of the ministry. He filed his reports like any other employee, but his superior never changed, and the elderly Unspeakable refused to read anything that didn’t interest him personally. 

If Broderick had bothered to read those reports, he’d have known Charles was getting close to developing a cure for weak or damaged magical cores. The spring, Charles reported, was not liquid love, but condensed natural magic. It was the essence of life and vitality—a chaotic force that could defy the laws of nature because it wrote them in the first place. That’s why magic-users rarely studied the muggle sciences. Einstein, Newton, Tesla, and Darwin all followed the rules, but wands were made to break them. 

Any qualified magic-user could transfigure a rock into a squirrel, but with access to Cupid’s Barrow, that same person could reprogram magic so up is down and rocks are blueberry muffins. Charles shuddered, tucking his final report into his ever-expanding attache case. He had to be careful. The last thing they needed was some random bigot trying to rewrite the laws of reality. If he submitted this information, there was a small chance it could get back to Fudge, and everyone knew he took ‘donations’ from supposed victims of the imperious curse. If even a hint of the Barrow’s potential got out, it would be a disaster.

Charles sealed the wards with trembling fingers, nearly fumbling the standard exit protocol. He needed a stiff glass of whiskey and a good cry in the arms of his wife. He might as well call in sick the next day. Bode wouldn’t miss him, and he needed to rethink the ethics of his research. Giving a defeated sigh, the tired Unspeakable stepped out of the toilet stall and made his way home. 

If Unspeakable Mayhugh had made this discovery two or three years earlier, he might have been able to salvage modern society, but as the world fell into panicked upheaval, all he could do was batten down the hatches and weather the storm. At least nobody could blame the crisis on him; the bi-weekly vanishing charm on his boss’s inbox made sure of that. Charles wasn’t sure what was happening, but he didn’t want anyone to know he was involved because someone other than Bode had been reading his reports—right down to the doodles of his family D&D group. 

His wife, sister, and various cousins all knew about magic, and a couple charms and illusions made the games so much more immersive. (It was also a great way to practice his magic.) Charles blamed those doodles for the blue message blazing in front of his eyes. Even the font looked like it came from a computer game menu, and he found himself flashing back to sleepless dungeon crawls and building fantasy games with his mates in uni. He’d always wanted to tell the group about magic, and now it looked like he might get his wish. The Statute of Secrecy might not matter in a few weeks, after all.

The kettle whistled, and he all but jumped out of his skin, rushing to get it off the stove. 

“Sweetie, are you messing with a new spell? It’s a great idea for a new campaign, but the interface is hell on visibility—oh, tea! Make mine a Builder's, will you?” Sasha gave him a bleary-eyed kiss on the cheek before turning toward the overhead cabinet. “My project deadline’s tomorrow—I’ll be locked in the cave all day.” 

“Sasha . . . I’m not doing this.” Charles set the kettle on a hot pad before reaching down to grip the edge of the kitchen counter, bracing himself as he read the blatantly informal message again. 

{SYSTEM NOTICE #009-0001}

Charles! You finally identified me in your reports! I was afraid you’d be too late, but you made it just in time. I’m so sorry I couldn’t contact you earlier. It took me years to find other immortals. Then, I had to convince them to ignore a few outdated checks on divine intervention. We all woke up in a reeking cesspool of corruption and ignorance, so it wasn’t hard, but Death still insisted you acknowledge my existence as an entity before I could reach out.

But now, you have! So, hello! As much as I would love to introduce myself, I have no idea which appellation would be appropriate. ‘Magic’ is a good catch-all, but I’ve also been Heka, Hekate, Enki, Sukuna Hikona, among other monikers. It doesn’t really matter what you call me, just pick a name and transfigure a statue or something. As long as you’re polite, I don’t really care. Just in case you’re still skeptical, I’ll send the report you smuggled home to your inbox along with some commentary and a few cool effects for your campaign.

Now, down to business. The fundamental laws of the universe are about to change. This is not a joke or a prank. At 5:00 AM GMT on August 23rd, the new system will go live and I need you to be ready. That’s a little more than a month, so use your time wisely. Read the rules, pack everything you want to keep, turn off all your electronics, prepare a safe house, work on your cardio—launch day is going to be a total cluster-fuck, so plan for the apocalypse. 

If you have additional questions, you’re welcome to add my name to your contact list, but I may not be available until integration is finished. Technically, I can only speak with beings who pledge themselves to me or my aspects, but we can fudge the details and skip the ceremonial cowbell. I claimed fantasy gaming as part of my domain, so for the sake of legalities, I’m claiming your weekly game sessions as a holy day. That makes your role as ‘Game Master’ equivalent to a ‘Priest.’

Now that we’re done with the dire warnings, I do have to thank you for tripping that proximity alarm so relentlessly. Without you, we’d still be trapped in stasis, doomed to perish in the dumpster fire this world has become. It’s not much, but you deserve a few perks for your character sheet and one or two boons for a rainy day.

Fair warning: the next few years are going to suck, but the world desperately needs to be rebalanced. Humanity might curse us for ruining the status quo, but you mortals made this mess. We’re just mopping up the toxic runoff. 

Sparkles and kisses,

Magic

Over the next two weeks, several noteworthy people received similar messages. A Swiss hunter in a battered mountain cabin paused while skinning a mature eight-point buck, a well known marine biologist froze in the middle of a university lecture, a madwoman clawed the air as she screamed for her master from a cold prison cell, and a green-eyed boy with messy black hair suddenly found the frying pan very hard to see . . .


	2. The Blue Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry receives a mysterious message while cooking breakfast.

CHAPTER ONE

The Blue Box

Once again, something strange was happening to Harry Potter, and as usual, it really wasn’t his fault. Trying not to panic, the twelve-year-old wizard flipped Dudley’s extra serving of bacon and braced himself for retribution—well-meaning but overbearing house elves, ministry owls, or a classic thump to the head. Several minutes passed in tense silence while Vernon commented loudly on the latest political scandal.

“Honestly, the state of the world these days. Rotten to the core—and no wonder with people like this in government. Hard-working, honest folk deserve so much better.”

“I keep saying that, but . . .” Petunia’s simpering agreement was drowned out as Dudley turned up his television program. 

Harry tried not to roll his eyes as he deftly filled his cousin’s empty plate. Normally, he’d try to sneak a piece for Hedwig, but he was having trouble seeing around the strange blue box hovering in front of his face. It had to be some kind of magic because the Dursleys obviously couldn’t see it. Still, it looked like something from one of Dudley’s computer games. Setting the frying pan in the sink, Harry absently began scrubbing as he read the message. 

{SYSTEM NOTICE #013-0001}

Dear Mr. Potter, 

Congratulations. A higher entity has nominated you for early access to the new universal system. You may explore your user interface, allocate and earn status points, examine your available classes, and manage your inventory. You may also grant early access to five additional beings. 

The global system will launch at 5:00 AM GMT on August 23rd, 1993. If you have any questions or concerns, focus your intent on the help icon in the upper right corner. If your question isn’t on the FAQ, try contacting your sponsor. 

We wish you the best of luck, 

The Administrators 

Glancing at his aunt, who was busy thinking up chores, Harry surreptitiously poked the box. It disappeared only to reveal a confusing array of bars and symbols. He didn’t have a clue what any of them meant. The whole thing might be an elaborate prank, but he’d been back at Privet Drive for over two weeks, and most wizards knew even less about computers than Harry did. 

Ironically, the most knowledgeable person he could think of was Dudley, but the fat bully had been so helpfully ignoring him this summer. Harry didn’t want to spit on his good fortune. Maybe if he had some kind of bribe or threat, but Dudley knew he couldn’t do magic out of school, and he wasn’t about to let any of the Dursleys know he had access to money. 

No, his best bet would be the library or Hermione if he could scrounge up enough for a pay-phone. With that settled, Harry dried the clean pan and set about gathering the rest of the dishes. He blinked, gaping like a dying fish as he saw gray words floating over his aunt’s head. 

Petunia Dursley:

Human - lvl 0

“Close your mouth and get moving.” Petunia snapped, slapping a completed chore list on the table. “Mrs. Polkis will be visiting this afternoon, so you better be out of the house by eleven.” 

“Y - yes, Aunt Petunia.” Harry rushed to stack the breakfast plates. The sooner he could leave, the better. 

By the time the dishes were put away, Harry decided to try calling Hermione from the library. She might not have the right answers, but she always knew where to start looking. She also had access to a working computer, which couldn’t hurt.

Well, at least he had a goal. It was certainly better than conspiring to do his summer homework in the dead of night. Grabbing a slice of toast behind his aunt’s back, Harry hurriedly wolfed it down before starting on his chores. They were mostly boring, repetitive tasks that his aunt despised like scrubbing the baseboards in the sitting room or bleaching the bathroom tiles. He was fairly sure she saved up all the worst jobs over the school year just to make him suffer. When Harry had his own house, he was going to let the floors get blacker than the Chamber of Secrets just for spite.

At exactly ten forty-seven, he finished with the bathroom, ate the dry sandwich Aunt Petunia had left for his lunch and went upstairs to fish his emergency sock full of muggle coins out from under his bed. Shoving it in an old school bag, the young wizard hefted it onto his shoulder and headed down to the back door. 

“Be back in time to help me with dinner.” Petunia called after her nephew. “If I find you digging through our pantry on your own again, I’ll let Vernon stuff you in with that trunk.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry rolled his eyes and shut the door. Heaven forbid he consume more than war rations. The Dursleys didn’t starve him, but he almost never got to eat balanced meals. He’d done the math in fourth grade after their school nurse introduced the food pyramid. Those calculations made him painfully aware that (A) Dudley’s diet was disgusting and (B) Harry rarely ate more than fifteen hundred calories on a good day. After that, he began tracking his actual nutritional intake compared with what his aunt thought he was eating, just in case he had to testify against her in court.

Before second year, Harry had stealthily exchanged fifty galleons for pounds sterling at Gringotts. After that first summer, he wasn’t taking any chances—Harry couldn’t use magic to escape and he might not get another timely rescue. During his first week back, he managed to buy a few boxes of protein bars and hid them in with his books. He also smuggled several bottles of tap water and stash them in the closet with Dudley’s old junk. It wasn’t perfect, but having guaranteed access to food and water made him breathe just a little easier. 

Unfortunately, having money didn’t mean he could spend it. The first time he’d gone into a store to buy something, the attendant accused him of stealing from his uncle’s wallet. Harry ran before she could drag him to the security office, but he still got in trouble when he made it back to Privet Drive. Now, Harry kept a nice change of clothes in his bag and made sure he walked one and a half miles out of the neighborhood before flashing any cash. He didn’t mind. It was good exercise and he actually got to eat fresh produce before it started to go soft and mushy. 

Harry still had to watch out for Dudley’s gang, but his cousin had grown so fat, he could barely move without panting, and his friends preferred to hassle more profitable targets. In fact, apart from one catastrophic phone call, the summer was almost boring, strange blue messages notwithstanding.

The bus was just pulling up as Harry jogged to the terminal. Ignoring the driver’s suspicious glare, he dumped his fare in the till and shuffled toward the back of the bus. Every single person had the same label as Aunt Petunia, but they weren’t always visible. If Harry ignored the words, they blurred and became transparent until they disappeared altogether. It was hard to catch it happening because the second he thought about the labels, they’d come back. It was bizarre—even for the magical world. Not everyone was named, either. Harry knew Mrs. Montgomery from primary school and Mr. Fairweather from the local deli, but everyone he didn’t know was listed as ‘Human.’ Harry tried not to stare as he slid into a seat beside a beady-eyed old woman carrying a pompous little poodle. Even the dog had a label—Harry focused on her tag and the name ‘Priscilla’ slowly appeared over her species tag. Weird. Useful, but weird. . .

Little Whinging Public Library had five outdated computers, which were mostly used as digital catalogs. One machine had a stable internet connection, but you had to pay ten pence for five minutes, and there was always a waiting list. Harry wanted to call Hermione, but he didn’t want to sound stupid or waste time asking questions with obvious answers. Poking around the help section couldn’t hurt—it should at least indicate how much trouble he was in.

Pulling an old notebook and pencil from the bag, Harry sat down at a study cubicle and made a quick sketch of the bars and symbols. In the upper left, there were twelve stars sitting on top of a red ‘HP’ bar and a blue ‘MP’ bar. Harry didn’t have a clue what that meant, but the minute his confusion registered, a helpful message appeared.

{As a sentient in the new system, you will always be aware of your physical health. ‘HP’ or ‘Health Points’ are a representation of your overall well-being, ‘MP’ or ‘Mana Points’ represent your overall magical capacity. Both pools refill slowly over time depending on your personal attributes and situation. If your health bar reaches zero, you will lose a life and respawn a nearby graveyard. Critical strikes to unarmored areas may result in immediate death.}

Merlin, that was morbid. If he had this in May, could he have watched the basilisk venom slowly drain his life away? Of course, Harry supposedly had extra lives, now. Was that a trick to make him even more reckless and stupid? Obligingly, the system offered more information. 

{The stars in the upper left-hand corner represent your remaining lives. Each star is worth a single mortal lifespan, and more may be earned via quests or items. As one of Death’s Chosen, you have been granted two stars above the average sentient being. }

Several seconds passed until Harry remembered he had to breathe. He gasped and shivered as he wished the horrible window away. That couldn’t be real—it wasn’t fair! People couldn’t have more than one life! If they could, his parents could have come back. Reading his elbows on the desk, Harry felt his eyes water as he buried his face in his palms. For the first time in over a year, he remembered the happy picture in the mirror, the gentle smile on his mum’s lips, and his dad’s mischievous grin. If he was ‘Death’s Chosen,’ could he give his extra stars to his parents? 

Blinking his eyes, Harry sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of Dudley’s old shirt. He needed help. Back in the kitchen, the box told him he could talk to someone—his ‘sponsor,’ whoever that was. 

{You were sponsored by the concept of death. He has no preferred gender, but your culture generally depicts him as male. You may also refer to him by his previous identities, which include: The Reaper, Anubis, Hades, Donn, Izanami, Yama, etc. Would you like to send a private message? }

No, not yet, anyway. Harry brushed the message away. He should probably be more worried about contacting The Grim Reaper, but in all honesty, he wasn’t surprised. If gods existed, the only one that would make more sense, in this case, would be Fate. Still, if this wasn’t a horrible joke and he really could talk to Death, there was a chance he could meet his mum and dad, right? For now, he just needed the help menu. A stylized question mark flashed twice near the top of the column of symbols, attracting his attention. 

Focusing on the symbol made a large screen appear at a comfortable reading distance. This looked less otherworldly than the blue messages. In fact, it looked like an opaque sheet of glass with silver edges. It was smooth and solid, and when he pulled on the rounded corner, it moved exactly as he intended. Wow. If books were like this, he’d read more than Hermione. Harry grinned as the crisp text scrolled up and down with a touch of his finger. The glass panel reminded him of a science fiction show Dudley used to watch every Sunday—it even had a nifty camouflage mode to prevent awkward questions. With the tap of a finger, the panel became a large book, dropping onto his desk with a solid thunk. Harry jumped and glanced around. A harried-looking teenager spared him a disapproving glare, but no one else seemed bothered by the noise. Sucking in a deep breath, Harry flipped to the table of contents and scanned the massive compilation of guides and tutorials. Frequently Asked Questions—that sounded promising. 

Q: Is this real? 

A: Yes. This is not a joke or a trick. If you require more proof, please contact your sponsor. 

Q: Why is this happening? 

A: Unfortunately, our intervention is required for your world’s survival. It’s not any one individual’s fault, but as a species, humanity has not been kind. In a few short decades, the air in your atmosphere will no longer be breathable, sea levels will rise, and violent storms will become more frequent. Some of you might live through that, but the majority will die. Fragments of life would be caged on mountain top sanctuaries, surviving for another century until storms or diseases inevitably wipe them out. 

Balance needs to be restored, and this is the most merciful option. We can’t be sure what exactly happened, but something forced the immortals into prolonged unconsciousness sometime in the fifteenth century. Time suspects a botched ascension ritual, but he can’t visit that era without risking another episode. Unfortunately, most deities perished with their last remaining worshipers, but others still exist, and we will help however we can. 

Magic, Death, and Time are the main architects of the new system. We hope the changes will be for the better, and we wish you the best of luck. 

Q: Why was I chosen?

A: Death gave our committee several reasons for his choice, and he did snatch you from fate by a two-vote margin. You are the last descendant of Ignotus Peverell, and the rightful owner of the Deathly Hallows. Ignotus was the first owner of your invisibility cloak and has been Death’s special friend for centuries. They would both love to meet you if you decide to unite all three artifacts. Apart from your heritage, you were also touched by Death at a young age, and fated for another walk beyond the veil at seventeen. So, Death argued it was only fair that he claim you. 

Harry stared at the screen, eyes wide with shock. He would have died again at seventeen? The vague answer implied he would survive, but that meant Voldemort would succeed in gaining a body sooner than he’d ever imagined. How could he defeat an evil megalomaniac when he hadn’t even finished school? 

Tangling his fingers in his hair, the preteen wizard realized that, thanks to the system, they’d have to kill the evil bastard ten times before he’d actually stay dead. Harry needed to talk to someone—maybe Dumbledore, but the man was so fond of dodging questions, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that kind of talk after what he’d just read. 

No, he needed to calm down, think carefully, and call Hermione. She probably wouldn’t believe him, but he wanted to hear a friendly voice, and somehow, he didn’t think Dumbledore owned a working phone. He might write the man a letter after he got home, but Harry didn’t imagine he’d get an answer. In all honesty, he was still wary of the headmaster. The old wizard seemed kind enough, but he still left a magical toddler on a muggle doorstep in the dead of night. That wasn’t something he could forget—especially when the man never bothered to check up on Harry’s home life, even after Hagrid had so much trouble delivering his Hogwarts letter. In retrospect, a lot of things about first year seemed dodgy, but Harry couldn’t afford to chase that rabbit right now. Merlin, adults were frustrating. 

With a quiet sigh, Harry looked down at his notes to make sure the most important details were recorded. No other questions seemed immediately relevant, but there was a guide for the interface, so he might not need a computer manual after all. He still wasn’t sure he understood some concepts, but the symbols represented different system menus—status, inventory, toolbox, contacts, settings, and help. With a thought, Harry could pull each interface out of the air and handle them like physical objects. There was even a private notebook so his writing would never be lost or damaged. If he could share it with his friends, it would be perfect for recording their adventures. 

Despite all the neat tools, the most important page was Harry’s status menu. The chart showed his total attribute values, his current level and skill progression, and his equipped items. Harry currently had ten bonus points to allocate to a total of six variables. He already had points in every category, but the distribution was pretty depressing.

Somehow, his highest attribute was intelligence, but he didn’t consider himself particularly smart or powerful. Besides, the natural human maximum was supposed to be ten. His other numbers made sense: high agility from quidditch training and all the running he’d done in primary school, and, of course, low vitality from his aunt’s neglect. There was a negative seven next to intelligence, though. Maybe the killing curse fried his brain cells or something? How was he supposed to—okay, never mind. Harry didn’t even finish thinking his questions before an answer flashed in front of him. It was almost like the system had been anxiously waiting for this particular query. Harry furrowed his brow as he read:

{Your intelligence attribute is being affected by a piece of Tom Marvolo Riddle’s spiritual body. If left unchecked, it may impact your emotions and eventually attempt possession. }

Harry’s ears rang as the blood drained from his face. Possession. Rancid slime and the smell of old death clawed at his memory, dragging him back to a battered diary and a dripping fang. A piece of that monster was sleeping in his brain, devouring his mind and magic like a bloated leech. The young wizard shivered, fingers curling on the desk as bile climbed the back of his throat. Fury and revulsion crashed through him and he barely noticed the nearby light fixtures flicker. The famous scar everyone loved to worship suddenly felt dirty and vile. It couldn’t be real, but . . . it made sense. His scar hurt when Voldemort was nearby and he could talk to snakes, just like the diary. It was a parasite—an unwanted burden he didn’t even know he was carrying. No wonder the Dursleys hated him—everyone should hate him. 

Harry swallowed, tears welling in his eyes as he struggled to breathe. He curled up with his head on the desk, wishing yet again that he could have at least one adult he could actually trust. This wasn’t something he could handle. He didn’t even know where to start, but there was only one person he could reasonably confide in. Wiping the moisture from his eyes, Harry shoved his things in his bag and stalked off to the pay-phones, dumping coins in the slot until he succeeded in dialing a number he’d subconsciously memorized after first year.

“Hello?” a vaguely familiar female voice said. 

“Dr. Granger?” Harry tried to keep his voice steady, but his throat refused to cooperate. “My name is Harry Potter. I - I’m sorry for bothering you, but if you don’t mind, I’d really like to talk to Hermione.” 

“Of course, Harry. Are you alright? Do you need help?” 

Harry heard a distant gasp and a muffled exclamation, which meant his friend was definitely there in the background.

“I don’t know . . . It’s magic stuff, and I don’t think Hermione can help either, but I really need someone to talk to and I’m not sure I can say it over the phone.”

“Well, okay, you’re welcome to visit. My husband and I work alternating days during the summer, but we’d love to have you over for dinner and a movie. Hermione talks about you all the time, and we want to get to know you better.”

“Thanks, Dr. Granger.” Harry gave a wet laugh as he heard more muffled talking. Then, he finally heard Hermione.

“Harry? I’m so glad you called. Ron wrote to tell me about the phone call last week, and I was so worried. I didn’t want to get you in trouble, but I don’t have another way to contact you. Did the Dursleys lock you up again? You know you really ought to report them.” 

“No . . . No, It’s not that. They’ve mostly been ignoring me this year, but I can’t talk to them about anything, and something weird is going on. Did you get a message in a blue box?” 

“No, but if I didn’t know you better, I’d think that was a Doctor Who reference.” She laughed. “Did you open it yet?” 

“Oh, no—not that kind of box.” Harry frowned, trying to think of a way to explain without sounding crazy. “It was like one of those little messages that pop up on a computer.” 

“You got a message on a computer?” Hermione sounded very confused. “What did it say?” 

“That’s what I need to talk about, but I’m going to sound like a total nutter! I can barely believe it myself, but it’s way too complicated for a hoax and some of the information is really scary. If it’s true, I could end up like Ginny—or worse! I don’t know what to do and you’re the only one I can really talk to—hang on, I need to find more change.” 

Harry fished out his money sock and fed the phone more coins. 

“Harry, are you calling from a public phone? Let my mum pick you up and we’ll talk over tea. Whatever’s happening sounds important, and you know I won’t think you’re crazy. Last year, you heard voices in the walls. That sounded weird, too, but we should have realized what it meant the minute we found out you could talk to snakes.”

“Yeah.” Harry took a deep breath before letting it all out in a rush. “Yeah, okay. I’m at the Little Whinging Public Library in Surrey. Are you sure your mum doesn’t mind? I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No, she wants to meet the boy from my letters and both my parents are worried about your home situation. If you can’t talk to your relatives, do they even know what you’ve been through at school? I mean, have you talked to anyone about how it made you feel?” 

“I . . . sort of talked to Dumbledore, I guess, but he doesn’t have time to listen to me whine—besides, I don’t think guys are supposed to talk about that stuff, Hermione.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” He could easily imagine her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. “Male chromosomes don’t make you impervious to trauma.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, well you find a therapist who wouldn’t lock me up the first time I mention quidditch.” 

“They’re called mind healers in our world, Harry, and I’m still looking for a good one—Oh! Mum’s ready to go. I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget to call your aunt and tell her where you’re going. You don’t have to be rude just because she is.”

“Yes, Mum.” Harry laughed and finally felt the dark clouds drift away.

The call home went about as well as he expected. Aunt Petunia badgered him about skipping dinner duty, but she was pleased to hear that Hermione’s parents were both dentists. Dudley needed a ton of fillings, and the local clinics refused to see him after the incident of ‘89. Harry never heard details, but somehow Dudley and the dentist both ended up in the emergency room. 

Harry fiddled with his status menu a bit more, scrolling through an extensive list of ‘skills’ and potential ‘class’ options. Classes seemed to be kind of like jobs, and while he couldn’t select anything until the official launch date, it was definitely something he ought to research. Some of the descriptions were disturbing. Who in their right mind would choose to be a ‘Necromancer?’ That sounded dark—maybe worse than Voldemort, unless he had a legion of undead hidden somewhere. That thought made the young wizard shiver. Snakes and ghosts were bad enough; he didn’t need any more nightmare fuel. 

He got two jobs to start with—one combat class and one civilian class, but the descriptions made no sense. Wizard wasn’t even an option. There were magical classes, but they were all called things like ‘Combat Sorcerer’ or ‘Elemental Mage.’

Harry was still trying to figure out the difference when a bushy brown blur nearly tackled him to the pavement. Warm arms crushed Harry’s thin body against a surprisingly female chest as he felt real affection for the first time in weeks. 

“Hi, Hermione.” Harry grinned, squeezing her in a gentle hug. “It’s really great to see you.” 

“Don’t embarrass him, darling!” Dr. Granger laughed from the open window of her sedan. “He might be your friend, but he’s still a teenage boy!”

“I’m not embarrassed!” Harry laughed, hiding his blush in Hermione’s hair. Despite the ups and downs of the past few hours, he was suddenly feeling deliriously happy. It was the kind of giddiness that came from complete exhaustion, but one of his best friends was here, and somehow that made the entire world a little bit brighter. Sooner or later the euphoric bubble would pop, revealing a snarl of terror and relief, but even that had to be better than crying alone and confronting another wall of bitterness and fear. 

Harry’s seatbelt clicked as he settled in for the drive. He wasn’t actually sure where Hermione’s family lived, but it had taken them a little over an hour to arrive, so he hoped he hadn’t made them drive too far. As they drove, Hermione chatted amicably about homework and the novel she was reading, while Dr. Granger tactfully quizzed him about his life at home and at school. By some miracle, she dodged all the usual bombshells, keeping the chatter light and easy. Harry loved every second of it and he almost didn’t want the drive to end. 

Hermione asked what he wanted for tea, and Harry couldn’t hide his surprise. The Dursleys never cared about what he liked, and he had no idea who created the spread at school. He’d never really had a choice before, and he wasn’t sure where to start, so he picked the one thing the Dursleys never let him eat. 

Pizza was officially the best food ever. It was hot and melty with crisp crusts and it tasted every bit as delicious as he’d imagined. Harry decided he liked the veggie-lover’s best, but plain old margarita was good, too—better than the pineapple monstrosity Dr. Granger favored. After tea, his friend’s mother dished out servings of chocolate chip ice cream, and as he scraped up the last glob of caramel sauce, Harry couldn’t help but wonder at the novelty of being accepted. Dr. Granger was a perfectly normal woman with a respectable career and a well-kept home, yet she certainly didn’t hate her daughter or flinch at every mention of magic. She was concerned about Hogwarts, and she obviously knew Hermione had understated the severity of her injuries the previous term. The woman kept trying to trick Harry into revealing more about the basilisk, but Hermione’s glares prevented him from saying too much. 

While helping his friend with the dishes, he decided to explain his most recent problem before they settled down for a movie. Once the last bowl was in its proper place, he steeled himself and tugged on Hermione’s shirt. The girl started and turned, expression faltering as she took in his serious expression. Without a word, she led him back to the table and asked her mother for a pot of tea. 

“Hermione, you - you remember what I said about the blue box, right?” He asked, carefully gauging her reaction as she gave a slow nod. “Well, I’m not sure this will work, but it’s probably the fastest way to explain.” 

Opening his contact list, Harry mentally added Hermione. 

{Would you like to give Hermione Jean Granger early access to the new universal system?}

Sending a mental confirmation, he saw the familiar label turn bright green as she officially became a level one human. 

“Oh, wow!” Hermione gasped, eyes focused on something Harry couldn’t see. “Congratulations, you’ve received early access to the new universal system—status points, available classes, inventory—it really does sound like one of Dad’s games.” 

“Hmm? What are you looking at, sweetie?” Dr. Granger asked, watching her daughter poke at thin air with a bemused expression. 

“You can’t see it?” Hermione asked, and glanced at Harry when her mother shook her head. “Is this like the Leaky Cauldron? It can’t be magic, right?” 

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “I see your name and level, but I can't see your screen, either—can you add people? Focus your attention on the symbol that looks like a person with a book, then decide to add your mum to the list.”

“Okay. Mum, did you—oh, sorry!” 

“Holy mother of frogs!!” Dr. Granger jumped, nearly dropping a full pot of tea. “Is this some kind of joke!? It’s asking if I want to unlock my magic!” 

“WHAT!?” Both children exclaimed. Harry was still reeling from his own problems, but Hermione cut to the heart of the issue in seconds. “Will it do that for everyone? I mean, I’m happy for you, obviously, but if this isn’t a hoax, the Ministry is going to have a total meltdown and a lot of people could lose their jobs, including Ron’s dad. They’re just not prepared to deal with a sudden influx of adult magic users, and I don’t think the wizards will be able to keep things quiet. They’re going to be exposed—people are going to panic!”

“Damn.” Dr. Granger passed a mug to Harry as she poured a second for Hermione, who was staring at her friend with a worried frown. It was hard to tell what the distressed child was thinking, but riots obviously weren’t what he’d been crying about. “Okay, I’ll call Wendell and ask if he can close early today. If he agrees, we’ll go to London and see a show or something. Have you ever seen a musical, Harry? They’re really fun, and the theaters usually have extra tickets on weekdays. Afterward, we’ll find out whether or not this is a hoax, but right now, I want you two to work out this preteen angst. Whatever it is, you’ll be fine, and if you want to talk about it, I’ll be up in Wendell’s office.”

Dr. Granger wrapped her arms around Harry in a more controlled version of Hermione’s tight squeeze. It wasn’t as soft and soothing as one of Mrs. Wesley’s hugs, but it felt safe and solid, like a rock you could cling to in a storm. After a few seconds, he started to squirm a little and she let go with a laugh, tousling his hair. Harry blushed, reflexively attempting to smooth it back. Physical contact still felt awkward. He should probably feel weird about so much hugging. Ron always complained about his mum’s hugs, but Harry didn’t mind—not that he’d ever admit that near Ron. 

Hermione dutifully pulled him into their family room and guided him to a comfortable leather sofa. She set both their mugs on the coffee table and ran back into the kitchen to fetch a large tin of biscuits. The two friends settled down in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Harry finally spoke. “So, we’re assuming it’s real, right?”

“I think we have to. You were right; this is way too complex for a hoax, and most of it is genius. I mean, just look at the inventory system!” Hermione picked up the remote control for the television and suddenly, it was gone. Then, she wiggled her fingers and it appeared in her open palm. “Voila!”

“Wow.” Harry’s mouth twitched as he held back a smile. “It’s practically magic.” 

“Yes, wandless magic the Ministry apparently can’t detect.” Hermione pondered, and she was right. There’d been no letters from Mafalda Hopkirk, and Harry had been using the system all afternoon. Hermione’s brown eyes sharpened as she took stock of her best friend’s sunken cheeks and sickly pallor. Pursing her lips, she set her jaw and prepared for their usual argument. “Harry, we’ve talked about this before, but I’m not letting you brush it off again. I know we’re in the middle of another crisis, but you need to see a proper doctor and a licensed healer. You admitted your relatives never took you, and Madam Pomfrey doesn’t count. She’s a mediwitch, not a healer.”

Harry made an affirmative grunt as he sank deep in the sofa. “It’s just as well, I suppose. I hate it when people make a fuss, but I really do need help. Look at my status page.”

Harry opened his menu and held it out to her. A short prompt asked if he wanted to share the page, and he agreed. Hermione blinked, surprised by his ready compliance. They’d been fighting at least once a month since she realized he couldn’t read the instructions in potions. Accepting Harry’s status page, she immediately saw the problem and gasped.

“Oh, Harry . . .” Her voice shook as she looked up at his forehead. Her eyes lost focus, and he knew she was reading the same notification he’d seen earlier. “That’s horrible! Has it been there since you were a baby? But, you must have seen a healer before they took you to the Dursleys!”

“Dumbledore might have checked me over, but he wouldn't trust St. Mungos—not right after the war.” Harry shrugged, taking a long gulp of tea as he considered his next words. Hermione had a blind spot for authority figures, and she definitely looked up to Dumbledore. “I think he probably knows, but . . . maybe he can’t get rid of it without killing me. I don’t know who he consulted, but I’d definitely like to get a second opinion. So, yeah. I’ll see a healer. We just have to make sure it’s someone we can trust, because if the wrong person finds out I’ve got a bit of Voldemort stuck in my head, I’ll be good as dead.”

“What about Ron’s brother? He’s not a healer, but a curse breaker might know about this sort of thing, right? At the very least, he could point us in the right direction. We still probably ought to tell Dumbledore, though. I know you don’t want to, but it would help if we knew what he’s already tried.”

“If he bothers to tell us anything.” Harry grumbled. “Let’s talk to Bill first. He’s probably still in Egypt, so we’ll have to send Hedwig.”

“Well, you could try adding him from here, but you only have four more invites, and you know Ron will want one—are you going to warn your family?” Hermione asked, taking a sip of tea as she carefully ignored the way he winced at the mention of the Dursleys.

That was a good question. They didn’t deserve anything from him, but if this was real, and he didn’t warn them, they might actually die. He hated the way they treated him, but Aunt Petunia and Dudley were the only blood relatives he had left. “I think . . . I might talk to Dudley. He was practically raised on computer games, so if we get him to take this seriously, he might actually be able to help.”

“Right. So, that’s already four: Dudley, Bill, Ron, and me.” Hermione pulled a yellow legal pad out of thin air, and Harry blinked before realizing he was seeing the notepad function from a spectator’s point of view. Was he seeing an illusion, or did the interfaces vary depending on the user? “If each person you choose can invite two others, we’ll have a total of fifteen spots if mum can’t add anyone else.”

“I don’t know who else I’d add, anyway. Hagrid’s at Hogwarts, so a late start won’t hurt him.” Harry muttered into his tea. “I - I don’t really know that many people.”

“Well, think about Dumbledore. I know you’re cross with him, but he’s still the leader of the I.C.W. and the Wizengamot. He really ought to know about this, even if we don’t give him access. Is there anything else bothering you besides your scar?”

“Oh—er—no, that’s what really set me off. Everything else is standard Harry Potter drama. I’m still a bit worried about being targeted by a psychopath with ten lives, but I’ll cope. Oh, did you know one of my ancestors is best friends with The Grim Reaper?”

“Knowing you, I’m not surprised. At least we’ve got ten lives, too.” Hermione snorted, underlining a passage in her notebook. She paused, tapping her eraser against the paper. “So, do you think I should tell mum about the basilisk? It’s just . . . the school never notified my parents, and they’re going to be furious. Dad might not let me go back if he finds out how close we all came to dying.” 

Harry sucked in a breath. “So, that’s why you kept giving me the death glare. But, your mum deserves to know, Hermione. She’s really nice and she cares about you. As much as I love Hogwarts, it really isn’t safe, and Madam Pomfrey should have sent them an owl. They have a right to be angry, and if you have to transfer, well . . . I’ll go with you.”

Hermione’s eyes flooded with tears, and a moment later, Harry found himself crushed in a tight hug. He awkwardly maneuvered his arms around her shoulders and tried to remember what you were supposed to do for crying people. Should he stroke her hair or pat her back? Confused, he compromised by stroking her shoulder. After a while, her sobs devolved into wet sniggers. 

“Merlin, you’re so adorably awkward.” She giggled, giving his shoulder a light punch as she came up for air. “Anyway, thank you for that. I really hate lying to my parents, but I’ve been terrified of losing you and Ron. You two are the first real friends I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, I understand.” He grinned. “Everyone in Little Whinging thinks I’m some kind of delinquent. So, do you want to tell your mum about the giant snake before or after we go to see the show, because I’ve never been to the theater before, and I’d really like to go?”

“Oh, let’s get it over with. She won’t punish us, but she might brain Dumbledore with Dad’s cricket bat.”

Grabbing Harry’s hand, she pulled him up off the couch and led him upstairs. The Granger House was quite a bit larger than Number Four, Privet Drive. It was painted in pastel colors and the walls were decorated with several generations of family photos in antique brass frames. The house had personality without the rampant chaos of the Burrow or the sterile perfectionism of the Dursleys. Harry grinned as they stepped past the official library and entered into a library that was pretending to be an office.

“Oh, good! Are you ready? I got tickets for Chicago at seven-thirty, so we’ll need to leave pretty soon. Dan’s going to meet us there. Harry, sweetie, do you have a change of clothes? I don’t mean to be rude, but those jeans must be six sizes too big and three inches too short.”

“Yeah, I always keep normal clothes with me in case I have to go shopping.” Harry said, looking over as Hermione as though asking how they should proceed. “But, we really need to talk to you about what happened last year.”

“Should I sit down?” Dr. Granger looked between their faces, nodded her head, and pulled up a chair. “Go ahead. It’s not worse than a troll, is it?”

“Oh, it’s worse. The troll only tried to kill me. Last year I missed three weeks of school and the end-of-year exams were canceled. It was horrible.” Hermione shivered and Harry rolled his eyes. 

“At least you made it through most of the year. Poor Colin was petrified in November. Anyway, Dr. Granger, there was this diary . . .” 

It took them almost an hour to explain, trading off as they described the disembodied voice, the mysterious attacks, and threats from the Heir of Slytherin. Harry told her about the dueling club and how the whole school shunned him because he could talk to snakes. Dr. Granger was an attentive listener, nodding and gasping in the right places, but when they finally got to Hermione’s petrification, she visibly paled, eyes darting over her body as though checking to make sure she was okay. Harry picked up the story from there, describing Ginny’s disappearance, Lockhart’s betrayal, and the battle in the chamber. He showed her the puckered scar where the fang pierced his arm, and explained how he managed to stab the diary. 

“So, Riddle dissolved, and everything was fine. Ginny and I made it out of the chamber, Madam Pomfrey patched us up, and Dumbledore stopped by for his annual wrap-up. Only Hermione was sad about exams. Oh! And I managed to trick Lucius Malfoy into freeing his house elf. Did we mention Dobby?”

A loud crack filled the office before Hermione could respond, and all three humans jumped several feet in the air with varying sounds of shock.

“Harry Potter!!!” A shrill voice wailed, and the young wizard was abruptly tackled by a short ball of sweaters. “Dobby is waiting for the Great Harry Potter to call! Professor Dumbledore is offering Dobby work at Hogwarts, but Dobby is hoping . . . he is hoping . . .” The elf looked at the floor, twisting his hands as he tried to make himself speak. “Does Harry Potter need an elf, sir?”

Harry stood there, gaping at the small being. He was wearing at least three doll-sized sweaters, several fluffy hats, and rainbow layers of socks. Dobby couldn’t really be asking . . . “I’m not sure I understand, Dobby. Dumbledore offered you a job, but you want me to hire you instead? You know I don’t have a house.”

Dobby looked up at Harry with large watery eyes and tugged at his outermost sweater. Both Granger women were still goggling at the sudden interruption. “Dobby is not wanting a house, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is wanting a family bond. Harry Potter is the kindest most noble wizard Dobby has ever known . . . Dobby will accepting paying if Harry Potter demands it, but house elves is needing a bond to live. Dobby is not wanting to bond with Hogwarts, sir, he - he is wanting to bond with you.”

“Oh . . .” Harry looked stricken, glancing up at Hermione who seemed just as shocked. “You could have died because I freed you? Dobby, I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll bond with you.”

“Hold it.” Dr. Granger called as the house elf opened his mouth. “No magical bonding until we finish discussing the giant snake. You’re saying it bit you, and Professor Dumbledore didn’t tell your aunt or send you to a hospital? Does he ever contact parents?”

“Someone owled Mrs. Weasley when Ginny disappeared, but . . . no, on second thought, that was Percy. The school didn’t call anyone.” Harry said, and he was pretty sure where this was going. “Do you want the names of the other victims so you can look them up?”

“That’s a very good idea.” Dr. Granger gave a tense smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll get them after we finish our outing. I need to talk things over with my husband before we make any decisions, but I’m proud of you for telling the truth. Now, we’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready, so let’s table the heavy topics until later. Dobby, if you can hide from non-magic people, you’re welcome to come see the show with us. Just make sure no one sees you.”

Dr. Granger probably regretted the invitation after being subjected to the elf’s vocal tears of gratitude and praise. Harry wasn’t sure how he should handle this situation. He liked Dobby, but the elf needed psychiatric help even more than he did, and Harry refused to hide him like a dirty secret. It was his fault the elf needed a new home, and he had plenty of gold in his vault, so Aunt Petunia would just have to deal with another guest. Besides, if things went as bad as Hermione suspected they would, having Dobby around couldn’t hurt. The next few minutes were a whirlwind of shouting down hallways and slamming doors. Harry finished changing in about two minutes, and Dobby snapped the creases out of the fabric before Harry could protest. With a sigh, the young wizard sat in the front hall and transferred his belongings to his inventory. “Dobby, can we talk for a minute?”

The elf blushed and looked up from the hall closet where he was compulsively cleaning shoes. “Yes, Harry Potter, sir?”

“I don’t . . .” Harry bit his lip, chewing over his words. “Well, I’ve never met another house elf before, so I don’t know how things work or what a bond is supposed to do. I don’t want a slave and I don’t really need a servant, but I can afford to pay you and I do need a friend. If we bond, I don’t want you ironing your hands or shutting your ears in the oven or - or hurting yourself in any way—do you promise to take care of yourself? Can you do that?”

“Yes! Yes! Dobby agrees!” The little elf bounced into the air and twirled around. A warm glow filled Harry’s core and his interface flashed with a notification.

{Congratulations! You have successfully created a bond with a symbiotic magical being. The upkeep cost is currently: 0.03 MP/s. You are welcome to view your companion’s statistics, skills, and available classes, but if you would like to make changes, he will require an invitation to the system.}

Focusing on the elf with the proper intent brought up his stat menu: 

Dobby was still at level zero, but he had skills related to cleaning, tailoring, knitting, and mana manipulation. Harry really didn’t understand the skill system. The progression seemed arbitrary, and the bonuses were confusing. For example, Harry’s cleaning skill was at level 24. It was a journeyman level skill that supposedly allowed him to finish 15% faster. He hadn’t noticed a difference, but he always zoned out during chores, so it’d be hard to verify. Harry’s adventures at Hogwarts had also given him things like dueling, espionage, tracking, stealth, and monster hunting, which was probably why he had so many weird classes to choose from.

“Well, that worked out well. Good to have you, Dobby.” Harry grinned and offered the elf his hand. Dobby gave a wet sob and shook the limb vigorously. After a few seconds, he let go and wrapped himself around the young wizard’s leg. “I guess we can talk about your salary later. I really don’t know what’s fair. I’ll have to check with Hermione.”

“Dobby is not needing paying.” The elf whined piteously.

“I thought you promised you’d take care of yourself.” Harry coaxed. “To do that, you’ll need stuff like food and soap and knitting supplies. What if you want to learn something new? How will you get books if I don’t pay you?”

The volume of Dobby’s crying rose, and Harry decided to pick up the argument another day. For all he knew, house elves could be allergic to kindness. Still, he refused to own a slave. Even if the elf only took a few pence, he was going to be paid in magic and real money. 

“Ready, Harry?” Hermione bounded down the stairs with a small canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She had changed from her casual T-shirt and jeans into a knee-length summer dress with white tights and low-heeled leather boots. She’d also done something to her hair that made it fall in smooth, silken waves. The difference was startling, and Harry found himself struck dumb for several seconds until Dobby covertly poked his leg.

“Oh—er—yeah, I’m ready.” He stammered, blatantly ignoring an evil laugh from down the hall. “You . . . you look great, by the way—um—how did you get your hair to stay smooth like that?”

“Pavati got me a potion set for Christmas last year.” She said as she headed out the front door. “I thought it was an insult, but it really does work. It takes more effort than I usually care to bother with, but Mum insisted.”

“Of course I want you to look nice, darling daughter.” Dr. Granger rolled her eyes and tucked an old academic triathlon cap on Harry’s head. “Hermione said you might need that, since we’ll be going into London. We have sunglasses, too, if you want to look like a proper celebrity.”

“No thanks.” The young wizard shuddered. “Come on, Dobby, you can sit in the middle.”

Dr. Granger—or Monica, as she insisted he call her—was still humming a jazzy number from the show as their small party exited Tottenham Court Road Station and turned onto Charing Cross. It took Harry several seconds to identify the scenery, but Hermione gasped in recognition. “Of course! It’s so simple!”

“I know! That grimy little invisible pub is right—here!” She exclaimed, smacking her hand against the worn brass handle. Dr. Wendell Granger, who’d been brought up to speed on the important points during intermission, followed the group with a fond smile. He didn’t care about magic, but he’d jump into hot lava if it helped keep his family safe and happy.

“So, now that we’re sure, I’ve been making a list of things we need to do.” Hermione pulled out her notepad as they all sat down at one of the pub’s corner tables. There were quite a few patrons in the pub despite the late hour, but apart from the odd unfriendly glance, they didn’t seem to care about the muggleborn family. Dobby got a more than a few lingering looks, but that was more for his lack of fashion sense than anything else. Wendell ordered a round of butterbeers while Harry asked Dobby to put up a privacy ward. Once they were all settled, Hermione shared her notes with the group.

“Dad, I have you in charge of warning the extended family, organizing our finances, and finding a safe-house. The system uses gold, silver, and copper coins for currency, and while it’s possible to exchange paper money, the exchange rate is awful. We need to use Gringotts if we can because even though wizarding coins are enchanted, the base metal is the same, so they’re worth more to the system. Any questions?”

Harry raised his hand. “Should I get my gold out of the bank?”

“Not yet.” Wendell cautioned. “We want to see how they handle muggle transfers first. If you clean out your vault, the goblins might start asking questions, and we want to avoid that for now.”

“Great. Mum—you’re next.” Hermione flipped to a new page. “I put you and Dobby in charge of logistics, which for now, means shopping. You also need to drive Harry home tomorrow so his relatives can see we’re a nice, normal family that cares about him.”

“Mission accepted.” Hermione’s mother gave a nod and a lazy salute with her bottle while Dobby squeaked his agreement after a questioning glance at Harry.

“Harry, add Ron tonight and send him a message. To add a contact remotely you need their full name and a clear mental picture, so he’ll have to contact Bill for us. For now, you’re our official liaison to the Weasleys and the Dursleys. I’ll be working on research and team coordination, so send me daily reports. Is that okay with everyone?”

“Of course, dumpling.” Wendell gave his daughter a bright smile. “You know we’ll gladly help, but we’re proud of you for taking the initiative.”

Harry was impressed. He’d never seen an adult surrender so much authority to someone under sixteen—even if Hermione was a genius and their daughter. He and Dobby echoed their consent, and the house elf’s tipsy warble told everyone a second round of drinks was not a good idea. Wendell settled their tab while Harry led the girls to the back entrance with his cap low over his face. He felt like some kind of double agent, especially when Hermione poked him in the back and drew his attention to the Hogwarts astronomy professor sitting at the bar with a heavily scarred man in a tatty brown coat. 

Diagon Alley was a different place at night. Most shops closed at eight, but a couple stayed open for the night owls. Harry recognized not one but five vampires walking down the street, one of which he only identified due to his label. The bank was open, of course. Wendell exchanged all the cash he had on hand and inquired about opening a vault for larger transfers. That led to a lot of paperwork and an inheritance test. The latter proved to be an interesting topic for everyone involved. 

“It shows all your ancestors?” Harry asked, watching black ink crawl across the parchment in neat, spidery lines. “Even muggles and squibs?” 

“All beings have magic, Mr. Potter, even muggles and squibs.” Rockjaw, the Granger’s account manager, explained. “Most wizards deny that, but it’s a fact, nonetheless.”

“Could I have a test done, even if I already have a vault?” He asked. 

The goblin frowned, making an extra note in the Granger account book. “Yes—your account manager should have insisted on it. A lot of old names died out this century, and wizards can never truly purge an individual from the family, no matter how ‘undesirable’ they may appear. So-called ‘muggleborns’ often inherit vaults that were left in stasis, even if they aren’t entitled to the full estate.”

“Oh . . .” Harry jumped as Hermione leaned over his shoulder to examine the list of vaults. “I didn’t know I had an account manager. I usually just give my key to a teller and they take me to my vault.”

The scratching of the quill abruptly stopped as the beady-eyed goblin looked up at the twelve-year-old. Whatever he saw in Harry’s face clearly did not make him happy, because he started muttering in Gobbledygook as he worked. “Stay here. I’ll have the keystones brought out shortly.”

“Huh.” Wendell commented, tracing his family line with his index finger. “I recognize most of this information from our ancestry records, but look here—it says Granny Melinda was actually a Dagworth. I’m not sure if Aunt Sarah will love or hate this. The tree goes all the way back to the middle ages, but there’s no supporting documentation.”

“There might be old documents in the vaults.” Hermione commented. “Pavati said her family keeps their most valuable heirlooms and books at Gringotts.”

Harry frowned. He was getting that feeling again. Something was off. The only family heirloom he had was his cloak, which his father had supposedly left with the headmaster. Pressure built behind Harry’s eyes as he chased the thought toward the dark rabbit hole at the back of his mind. Hagrid was sent to fetch him from the Dursleys, and someone had given the half giant his key. Possibly the same individual who arranged for the philosopher’s stone to be removed from vault 713. Rubbing the crease between his eyebrows, Harry tried to draw a logical conclusion from those facts, but the pieces refused to snap together. 

The adjoining door opened, knocking harry out of his sleepy trance as three goblins walked into the room. Rockjaw carried several long metal boxes, while a waif-like, elderly goblin held a massive file folder. The third goblin adjusted the ruby cuff links on his tailored three-piece suit as the door slammed. He had sharp ears, a wispy crop of red hair, and an olive complexion. The goblin scowled as he examined Harry with a gold monocle. 

“Mr. Potter, I’ve been hoping to see you for some time, but your court-appointed guardian has been less than accommodating.” The imposing goblin held out his hand politely. “I am Ragnok Ironclaw III, manager of this Gringotts branch. There are quite a few matters we must discuss.”

Harry jumped nervously but reached out to shake the goblin’s hand all the same. It was polite, and Ragnok was obviously an important figure. “Sorry. My relatives aren’t accommodating to anyone, but you’re welcome to contact me by owl. Is there something they need to sign?”

“A bigger problem than I thought, then.” Ragnok, glanced at the Grangers. “Mr. Potter, what I have to tell you is extremely sensitive, and there are several spells on your person that need to be removed before we can discuss your situation.”

“Oh.” Harry’s brow furrowed. “Are we all under the spells, or is it just me?”

“Young Miss Granger is under similar enchantments, and your house elf has a few lingering compulsions.” Ragnok removed his monocle and wiped the lens on a small cloth. “The elder Grangers, on the other hand, appear to be fine.”

Harry’s head was pounding. If the adults weren’t affected, but both kids were, Ragnok couldn’t be seeing the system or the dormant soul fragment. It had to be something else—something he and Hermione picked up at school. The young wizard rubbed his face as his mind raced in endless circles. The adult humans didn’t have the same problem. One shared look, and they were both in agreement. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark, or in this case, Hogwarts.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Monica pulled the young wizard into her arms and deftly smoothed her fingers through his hair. He gave a quiet sob as the elusive answers began to fade. “We’ll find a way to break this spell and make sure nobody messes with your head again, okay?”

Harry gave a slow nod, letting his tired brain rest. Wendell wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulder and fixed his eyes on the lead goblin. “The spells can be removed?” 

“I’m a bank manager, not a licensed healer.” Ragnok said, replacing his monocle. “Generally, we prefer to send our human clients to St. Mungos, but due to Mr. Potter’s circumstances, I’m willing to offer the services of our medical team if you all agree to sign a confidentiality agreement.” 

Harry looked up, scrubbing the moisture from his eyes as he took in the latest fork in their plans. He glanced at Hermione, but she was obviously stuck in her own mental loop, so he was on his own. “Will my information remain confidential?”

“Smart boy.” Ragnok flashed his teeth in a goblin grin. “Fortunately, discretion is something our nation is famous for. If you keep faith with us, we keep faith with you. All Gringotts employees take an oath to that effect. Breaking a goblin oath inevitably results in swift justice.”

“Okay.” Harry chewed his lip, considering all the ways this could still go wrong. He’d never be able to close his vault, for one thing. That could be seen as breaking faith, which would leave him open to betrayal. He also didn’t know how the medical team might react to Riddle’s soul fragment. If death really was the only way to get rid of it, would he have a choice? “Can I . . . do I have to decide now?” 

“No.” Ragnok’s expression softened and he made an odd gesture toward the goblin with the file folder. The goblin clicked his tongue and shifted his burden so one gnarled hand was free. “I’ll give you until Friday to decide. Team Paladin will need that time to wrap up business in Cairo, anyway.” 

Ragnok pulled a watch out of his pocket, examined it briefly, and snapped it closed. “Now, to business. Mr. Potter, this is Volak Bloodaxe. He’s been managing the Potter accounts for over ninety-eight years, and he’s been very eager to meet you. I don’t suppose you brought your trust vault key with you?” 

Harry shook his head, reaching out to shake the elderly goblin’s hand. Bloodaxe gave his fingers a sharp squeeze, before pulling away. “N - No, I wasn’t planning to visit my vault today.”

“Shame. Be sure to bring it next time. We suspect its enchantments have been tampered with, so try not to touch it with your bare hands. Just bring it straight to Bloodaxe.” 

Bloodaxe held out a crisply folded letter and said, “Due to security concerns, your vault locks must be changed—300 galleons per applicable lock. You are a decade overdue for an audit—10 galleons plus a 20 galleon fine for the delay. Until the enchantments on your mind are removed, you may not make any purchases or withdraws exceeding 400 gallons without my approval. Is that clear?”

“Um, yeah. I think so.” Harry looked to the Grangers as he took the letter. His head still felt kind of fuzzy, but he was coping. Hermione, on the other hand, looked like a frightened rabbit. She was whispering circular paths of logic under her breath, ignoring her father as he tried to calm her down. Eventually, he forced her to sit in one of the uncomfortable meeting chairs and accept a calming draught from Rockjaw. 

Monica gave his shoulder a squeeze, drawing his attention away from the other two humans. “How many locks, exactly?” 

The wiry old goblin pushed his spectacles up his pointed nose and bared his teeth with a wheezing laugh. “Forty-three standard locks.”

Harry almost choked. “F - forty-three!?” 

“That we know of.” Ragnok smiled. “Don’t tease the poor boy, Bloodaxe. We have enough trouble as it is. Tell you what, Mr. Potter, if you promise to deliver your key, we’ll combine the smaller vaults into a single high-security vault for 150 galleons. Or would you rather move everything to your family’s blood vault?” 

“No, the high security vault is good.” Harry rubbed his forehead. “How did I end up with so many vaults?” 

“The ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ was named in quite a few wills after the war. Lesser family branches, mostly, but Damen Ainsworth named you as his heir if he died childless, which he did. Of course, the Black inheritance is a mess, but thankfully, I won’t have to wade through that quagmire of incompetence. Your ‘guardian’ also apparently made accounts for royalties, endorsement fees, and gifts.”

Monica pulled down her notepad and jotted down several potential issues since her daughter’s best friend looked like he might fall over if he got one more shocking revelation. “We’ll be talking with you about that in more detail after the spells are taken care of. For now, let’s get the consolidation and the audit started. You’ll note which things were in which vault and who they came from?”

“That can be arranged.” Bloodaxe snapped the file shut and peered over the edge of his glasses at his young client. “Will you allow this witch to speak on your behalf, Mr. Potter?” 

Harry gave a grateful nod. “Yeah, if her head’s clear, I’d rather have her speak for me today.”

Hermione’s mother continued to hammer out details with the goblins while Harry slumped down in a chair next to Hermione, who was still gripping her dad’s hand. Wendell Granger was reciting poetry from memory in a soft voice while Rockjaw made space for a stack of metal boxes on his desk. Lifting the last box, he ran a long index finger down its length. The dull iron container popped open with a click, revealing a rune-covered slab of stone. 

“Thank you for your business, Lady Granger, Heir Potter. May your gold flow and your enemies fall.” Ragnok gave a short bow and Harry jumped back up to return the gesture. 

“Same to you, Master Ironclaw.” Monica beamed, offering a similar bow. “I’ll make sure we pick up the books you recommended. If my daughter’s best friend is some kind of magical lord, he deserves every chance at success.”

Without further pleasantries, the two higher-ranking managers left the room, and Rockjaw barely managed to suppress a relieved sigh. 

“Right. There are seven possible inheritances. Dr. Wendell Granger, we’ll start with four from your side of the family. Place a few drops of blood on the keystone, if you please.” 

With a comforting whisper to Hermione, Wendell took the offered knife and obliged. Grimacing, he pressed the blade to the pad of his thumb and shook a drop of blood onto the stone. The surface lit up with a bright flash and a silver ring appeared in the center of the runic array. “Neat.”

“Remove the ring and place it on your finger,” Rockjaw said as he made a note in his file. Wendell slipped the ornate piece of jewelry on his index finger, and Harry thought he saw a flash of light as it sized itself to fit. “Excellent. Vault 684, formerly of the Flannery line is now the primary Granger vault. As of our last audit, it contained 22,952 galleons along with sundry heirlooms, grimoires, and relics.”

“I don’t suppose the vault comes with real estate?” Wendell asked, examining the ring as the goblin closed the box and pulled out another. 

“There were several properties in the original estate, but unless they used illegal blood wards, the ministry probably auctioned them off.”

“Is there an easy way to check?” Wendell asked, squeezing his thumb over the next stone, which sizzled and smoked. Rockjaw set it aside, only to pull out another. 

“Officially, yes, but the records are a joke. Even if they have information on an estate’s sale, they won’t give it out without a sizable bribe. I’ll give you a list once we’re finished, but you’ll have to check the wards yourself. If you hold the wards, you hold the land. That’s the standard rule for magical property.” 

They repeated the same process for the last two stones. Another sizzled, but the last flashed violet, and a small gold ring appeared. “Ah, this is an heir ring. Contact the head of the Dagworth-Granger family. I believe Hector Dagworth lives somewhere in Norfolk, but he rarely entertains guests.”

Wendell glanced at Monica. Their distant uncle didn’t have any children of his own? “We’ll contact him.” 

Harry took over comforting Hermione as Monica went through another three stones. She came away with a ring from the Labarthe line. Hermione finally seemed to perk up when she tried her luck with the stones that rejected her parents. When they finally left the bank, Wendell had a bag of gold, a list of potential properties, and a very thoughtful daughter. 

“Honestly, it’s horrible.” Hermione ranted, puffing out her cheeks as she examined the two rings on her fingers. The Labarthe heir ring was a delicate gold band in the shape of a hemlock branch. Tiny rubies adorned the finely crafted circle like glittering clusters of berries. The Earie family ring was silver with an oval bezel setting. The flat jade stone was engraved with an intricate crest Hermione could freely claim. “I’ve never been stuck like that. I had all the facts. I could list them out individually, but the instant I tried to draw a conclusion, they vanished like smoke. It was so frustrating!”

“I’m just glad it’s not all in my head.” Harry said as they paused outside a second hand shop that was still open. Monica picked through a pile of old robes, and found a fancy magenta number that looked like it might have belonged to Lockhart at some point in time. 

“Monica, no,” Wendell said, trying to push the lurid garment away. 

“Monica, yes. You owe me for that bikini I wore in Italy last year.” His wife argued, draping the robes over her arm. “Now find something for me. I think we might as well get rooms at that pub so we can get an early start tomorrow, but it will be easier and safer if we blend in.”

Everyone agreed, and they spent a half-hour choosing the most horrible robes in the gaudiest colors they could find. Hermione ended up with a lime green dress with dancing grindylows along the hem and a rich violet cloak with a fading cooling enchantment. Harry tried to pick neutral colors but ended up with a pink brocade vest, a lightweight blue over-robe, and maroon trousers. Wendell fought tooth and nail but still walked out of the store with at least three colorful sets of clothing. Monica managed to snag a white gown with embroidered roses on the skirt. Sure, there were stains, but the nice vampire saleswoman convinced them it wasn’t blood, so she and Harry debated the viability of their removal. It was worth a try. 

Laden down with bags of cheap clothes and magical accessories, the family rented rooms above the pub and turned in for the evening. Well into the early morning, Harry was finally tucked in a warm bed, fleshing out his notes for the day. So much had happened in such a short period, he could hardly believe it was real. He glanced at Dobby, who was sitting on his borrowed cot, and smiled. “You can go to bed, Dobby. I just have to write a letter to Ron.”

“Dobby will wait for Master Harry Potter to finish,” he said, kicking his small feet in the air. 

“If you insist.” Harry shrugged and continued composing his letter. He also had to distribute his points so they’d be applied while he slept. Hermione had read about how that worked in the guide. His body would adapt to allocated points every time he slept, but if a change was too large it might take more than one day. Chewing his lip nervously, Harry pictured Ron in his mind and added him to the system’s contact list. Confirming his selection, he sent his message and opened his status page. 

Five was apparently the basic human average, while ten was the highest most people could strive to reach. Right now, his vitality was his biggest handicap. Harry wanted to be healthy, so he brought that value up to eight before adding one point to strength, dexterity, and wisdom. Now, he was at least average at everything, Harry thought as he added his last two points to intelligence. Reviewing the changes, he confirmed his choices before extinguishing the gas lantern and settling in for a comfortable night’s sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I hate big long author's notes when I'm reading, so I'll try to keep this short. Hi, I'm Fish. Nice to meet you, and thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment if you have any questions or suggestions, and I'll do my best to answer them when I can. I'm an avid litRPG reader and a huge HP fan, but all the HP game-lit fics I found were about harems. That's fine and all, but I was in the mood for a good old fashioned story with less focus on romance. I'm going to hit some of the major tropes—because why wouldn't I want a goblin inheritance scene or a shopping montage? There also may be some character bashing, but I promise it won't be without reason. Oh!! And please let me know if I mucked up any British-isms as I am an American. Thank you and Harry Holidays!_


	3. The Weasley Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron is rudely awakened by a peculiar message from Harry.

CHAPTER TWO

The Weasley Party

It was still early morning when a certain door in the Weasley household slammed open. Fred groaned, muffling his ears with a pillow. George, his identical twin, rolled over on the top bunk and launched a water balloon at the unwelcome invader. Ron dodged the projectile but swore as a glittery rainbow erupted on the door-frame and splashed his orange pajamas. 

“Ugh! Gross, George.” Ron snapped, tilting his head from side to side as though trying to see around some kind of obstruction. “I’m sure you two think this is hilarious, but when Mum finds out you’ve been doing magic, she’s going to flay you both alive.”

“What?” George muttered, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He groped for his alarm clock, which hung from the wall on a rubber cord, and squinted at the time. “Are you still harping on about those eclairs? We told you it’s your own fault for eating our prototypes.”

Fred grunted and rolled onto his stomach, pulling his patched comforter over the pillow. 

“No, this is different!” The younger boy huffed, waving his hands in front of his face as though trying to swat a persistent fly. “It has to be some kind of charm or illusion. There’s a message hanging in front of my face, and I can’t get it to go away!”

“What does it say?” George sighed, running his hands through a tangled mop of red hair.

Ron’s brow furrowed in concentration as his eyes flicked over the text. “It looks kind of like the print in those books Dad got with the old car. It says something about a new global system. What the hell is a global system?”

“Beats me. Just read the whole thing; it won’t kill you.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron read the text out loud to his brothers. 

{SYSTEM NOTICE #013-0005:}

Dear Mr. Weasley,

Congratulations. You’ve received early access to the new universal system. You may explore your user interface, allocate and earn status points, examine your available classes, and manage your inventory. You may also extend your access to two additional sentient beings. 

The global system will launch at 5:00 AM GMT on August 23rd, 1993. If you have any questions or concerns, please focus your intent on the help icon in the upper right corner. If your question isn’t on the FAQ, you can try contacting your sponsor or his patron. 

Best of Luck,

The Administrators

“That doesn’t sound like any of our products.” George mused. “Oi, Fred! Did we make any pranks about systems and administrators?”

“No . . .” A muffled voice groaned from under his pillow.

“It wasn’t us, Ron. Maybe Ginny got you.”

“Come off it.” Ron said, waving at the box again. He blinked. “It’s disappeared . . . what the hell?”

The preteen scrunched up his nose, crossed his arms, and stared at the strange additions to his field of vision. It was like nothing he’d ever seen or heard about from anyone in the family. Glossing over the bars and pictures, he focused on the most useful aspect of the ‘system.’ 

“You two have labels over your heads. I - I can tell you apart. Fredrick Antioch Weasley.” He pointed to the twin on the top bunk, then the one under the covers. “George Septimus Weasley.”

Fred gasped, swinging his legs down off the bed as George sat up and stared. “Are you messing with us, little brother?”

“No. Your names are right over your heads. What does ‘lvl.’ mean? Oh . . .” Ron paused to read a new explanation. “Never mind—did you two know you’re level zero?”

The gangly freckled boy squinted his eyes. One of the minimalist pictures was flashing like a hyperactive firefly. It looked sort of like a letter.

{The mail icon flashes when you have a new personal message. You currently have (1) unread message. Would you like to open your mailbox?}

“Yes.” He said decisively, then jumped as a pane of opaque glass appeared in front of his face. He made to swipe it away again, but this time his hand collided with the conjugation and sent it spinning off toward the twins. “Bugger!” 

“Um, Ron, are you . . .” Fred started, looking at George, who automatically finished the thought, “ . . . going completely mental?” 

Ron paused, grabbing the sheet of glass as it hit the wall with a clatter. “What? No! You’d be acting the same way if a sheet of glass popped up out of nowhere.” 

The twins shared a look, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. “Baby brother, there’s nothing there.” 

Ron blinked. “You’re joking—it’s right here.” He indicated the pane of glass hovering near Fred’s elbow. Both twins looked directly at it, then back at their brother. They shook their heads. 

“Nothing.” George said. “Whoever got you . . .” 

“ . . . got you good.” Fred nodded, waving a hand near where Ron was staring. 

“You can’t see it?” He asked, face a mask of utter confusion. 

{Control panels are invisible and intangible unless shared with another system user. Would you like to give Frederick Antioch Weasley access to the system and your mailbox?}

“Yeah.” Ron answered and Fred’s eyes widened. “Can you see it now?” 

“What the . . .” Fred’s eyes dated back and forth as though reading, then snatched the glass pane out of the air. He messed around with the controls for a while, then looked up at his youngest brother. “Ron, this started with Harry.”

Ron opened his mouth to argue while George stared at his twin as though he’d suddenly grow an extra head. Fred held up a hand to prevent them both from talking. 

“I’m serious. Look—he sent you a letter.” Fred pressed a symbol on the control panel, and a sheet of muggle paper appeared on the glass. 

“Where the heck did that come from?” George asked, pointing at the paper. 

“You can see it now?” Fred asked, handing the panel back to Ron, who accepted it and silently began to read. George rolled his eyes, then set his chin on Fred’s shoulder so he could see the writing on the paper. 

Dear Ron,

I know you must be surprised to hear from me, especially like this. This mess started yesterday morning while I was cooking Dudley’s breakfast. Hermione saw a blue box when I added her, so you can probably guess what happened. At first, I thought it was a joke because the new system seems like one of my cousin’s computer games. I called Hermione from the muggle library, and we’ve been testing it all day. We figure it’s real, and the world is going to change at 5:00 A.M. on August twenty-third.

That’s not all. When Hermione’s parents got access to the system, they also got access to magic. We’re not sure if it’ll be all muggles or just those with squib ancestry, but either way, there are going to be a lot of new witches and wizards, and Hermione’s really worried about how the Ministry will react if the Statute of Secrecy falls.

I’m sure you have a ton of questions, but if you ask them in your head the system will usually answer. If you focus on the little picture of a person with a book, it will pull up a list of all the people you know. I should already be there, but you can also add Hermione Jean Granger, Wendell August Granger, and Monica Elizabeth Granger if you want. There are a bunch of other features, but you should read the help section before you go messing around with them.

Now, Hermione and I need your help. We’re both at the Leaky Cauldron now, so we can meet up if you need to talk in person, but—long story short—we need to talk to your eldest brother. (Bill’s a curse breaker, right?) I was going to add him, because I still have two invites, but I don’t know your brother’s full name or what he looks like. Would you mind using one of your slots to add him? Hermione and I visited Gringotts yesterday and found out we’re both under some kind of enchantment. I can’t say much about it, but we could really use his advice. 

I know the system’s confusing, but it’s dead useful for carrying things and talking without owls. I put my whole bag in my inventory, and I still have nineteen slots left. Anyways, I better get to bed. We’re going shopping in the morning. Did you replace your old wand yet? 

Hope to see you soon,

Harry

“What is he talking about?” George asked, but Fred was staring at Ron with wide eyes.

“Is he for real?” The youngest boy asked as he finished reading.

“Only one way to find out.” Fred said and passed the letter to George. “There’s a time stamp on the letter—see? He was there at two in the morning. We’ll just sneak a pinch of floo and have breakfast at the Leaky.”

“Better wait till mum goes outside to tend the chickens. Otherwise, she won’t let us go.” George mused. “Get dressed, Ron. We’ll meet you at the landing.”

Ron swallowed, remembering the last time he’d visited Harry with the twins, but then, he nodded. No way was he going to let his friends have fun without him. “Right. See you in a bit.” 

Ten minutes later all three boys were standing at the top of the winding staircase. Fred grinned as sweets appeared and disappeared in his palm of his hand. “This is seriously the best thing ever! Now, Mum’ll never find our inventions! I’m going to kiss Harry!” 

“Egh, gross, Fred.” Ron mimed barfing as he double-checked his own inventory. It was hard to get used to all the panels and prompts. He hadn’t even bothered with half of them, but it helped that the system would answer stuff like ‘What does this mean?’ and ‘How do I do that?’ before he needed to ask them out loud. It was like having a miniature Hermione on his shoulder. Would it work on his exams? No? Shame. 

“Well, I’m going to punch Harry if he doesn’t add me, too. It’s so unfair.” George grumbled. 

“Ron probably shouldn’t have added me in the first place. Think how much easier it’d be to talk with Bill and Charlie if they had this. It takes days to get them a letter by owl, and if he’s right we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Yeah, we need to warn Charlie—not to mention Dad. Misuse of Muggle Artifacts is a moot point if there aren’t any muggles.” George pointed out, and Ron’s mouth fell open in horror. 

“You think they’d fire him?” 

“I dunno, it’s possible.” Fred said, taking George’s bag and stowing it away. “Ready? Mum just went out the back door.” 

George opened the hall window and peered out at the cluttered backyard. “Yup—it’s now or never, boys.”

All three Weasley brothers rushed down the stairs as quietly as they could. Ginny called out as they passed her room, but they didn’t have time to stop. Fred rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the pot of floo powder, distributing handfuls before tucking the rest in his inventory. George struck a purloined match and lit the fire as Ron anxiously tried to stall their sister. 

“Go, go, go!” Fred hissed quietly, fanning the flames. “Ginny, I’ll give you ten gallons if you stall mum.” 

Their youngest sibling crossed her arms. “No, I want to go, too! We’re supposed to muck out the goat pen today, and I’m not doing it on my own!” 

“Fine, come if you want. I don’t care.” Fred scrawled a cheeky message on the wall with a handful of soot and wiped his blackened fingers on Ron’s trousers. 

“Hey!” Ron yelled as George called out, “Diagon Alley!” and stepped into the green flames. Ron swore and threw his own powder on the fire, following George through the floo. Fred gave his sister a handful of powder, and soon two more flashes of green flames lit the kitchen as the four Weasley children disappeared. A dizzying few seconds later, they stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron. The pub was almost empty, but the tables were freshly scrubbed and the entire room looked much cleaner than usual. 

“Can I help you, lads?” Tom lisped as he looked up from the bar. 

“Yeah. I don’t suppose Harr - er - Hermione Granger is up yet? We’re supposed to meet her for breakfast.” Ron said, trying to rub the soot off his trousers. 

“Ah, yes.” The stooped man nodded, leading the red-haired party to a table by the stairs. “The Grangers checked in last night, but I’ve only seen the boy this morning. He offered to help in the kitchens, and I couldn’t pass up an extra pair of hands. I’ll tell young Harold you’re here.” 

A few minutes after they settled in, a busy looking boy with bright green eyes and messy black hair strode out of the back room, wiping his hands on his apron. The worn set of wizard’s robes he was wearing didn’t quite hide the fact that he’d grown several inches taller. He was also missing his trademark glasses, and his skin had a healthy sort of glow. An old fashioned hat hid the famous scar, but Ron still felt a twinge of excitement as his best friend caught his eye. Harry jogged over to their table and slid onto the bench across from Ron. Ginny flushed bright red and ducked behind a menu, kicking George in the kneecap as she tried to smooth her hair. 

“Fred! You didn’t say you were meeting Harry! I look horrible!” 

George snorted, “You’re the one who insisted on coming.”

“He’s George, anyway.” Ron laughed, stuffing an entire roll in his mouth.

“Hey, Ron!” Harry spared the blushing girl a glance as he snagged his own roll from the basket. “I guess you got my message, then? Did you contact Bill?”

“Haven’t gotten that far, yet.” He mumbled through his food. “Fred and George wanted to make sure the letter was from you.”

“Oh, well, it was. Sorry for springing it on you. Once breakfast is ready and the Grangers are up, we can discuss everything together. I’m in the middle of frying up eggs and bangers, but I’ll take your order before I head back to the kitchen. Morning, Fred, George, Ginny!”

Harry pulled out his notepad and took each person’s order. He had to take Ginny’s three times because she kept speaking to her menu and mixing up words. Once he finally finished, Harry rushed back to the kitchen, and George whistled, fanning himself with the menu. “Well strap me down and slap me silly. Did you see that boy’s skin? Puberty is not supposed to look that good.”

“George!” Ginny snapped, holding a butter knife as though contemplating murder. Fred almost spit his water across the room, and Ron’s entire face burned crimson.

“I don’t think . . . puberty . . . improves your eyesight, though.” Fred said between laughs.

“That is weird,” Ron said. “Maybe Dudley broke his glasses again.”

“I need to go check my hair.” Ginny muttered, smacking the back of George’s head as she hustled off to the restroom. All three boys burst out laughing after the bathroom door slammed.

“Ron!” Hermione grabbed her other best friend in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here! Mum, Dad, you remember Ron and his family.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Ron.” Monica said, shaking the boy’s hand as she sat down next to her husband. Harry and Tom passed out plates while the former tried to stop George from tucking sickles and knuts in his apron pockets. Ginny returned from the bathroom with red lips and smooth hair, but Harry didn’t seem to notice the change. 

“Sit down with your family, lad, or I might try to keep you.” Tom gave a wheezing laugh and pressed a handful of coins into his hand. Harry flushed at the misunderstanding, but he did look different without his glasses. About half of his vitality points had been applied overnight, and Harry felt like a new person. He’d grown several inches and could see perfectly fine without his glasses. Several poorly healed injuries had been repaired, and Harry’s body felt lighter and more energetic. He felt almost compelled to move, which is how he ended up helping Tom scrub tables and prepare plates for his kitchen’s stasis cabinet—though, to be fair, Dobby did the floor, walls, and ceiling. The elf also polished all the silverware and rescued a pile of wrinkled cloth napkins from dry storage.

“Thanks, Tom.” Harry tipped his hat, careful not to expose his scar as he tucked his earnings into his pocket. He sat down across from Hermione, looking her over for changes. It wasn’t obvious, but he thought her skin looked a bit smoother and her hair was a little less bushy. All three Grangers looked invigorated, and Wendell wasn’t wearing his glasses, either. Still, he suspected most of the changes were internal. After all, his own malnutrition must have affected more than his height. “Get me one of the Full English plates, please.”

“We’ll have jam and toast with fried eggs.” Monica said, indicating herself and her husband. Hermione frowned at the menu and ordered tomato on toast. Tom was about to leave when Harry turned to the last being at the table. 

“Dobby, what do you want?” The elf jumped poking his head out of the table as everyone turned in his direction. He had taken out a cloth and was halfway through polishing the young wizard’s shoes. 

“Dobby is eating in the kitchens, Master Harry.” The house elf said with his mouth set in a stubborn line.

“Is that what you really want?” Harry asked, and Dobby frowned, fiddling with his rag. 

“It is being . . . comfortable in the kitchens, sir.” The elf said, studying Harry to make sure he wasn’t out of line. “Dobby doesn’t like eating around strange wizards.”

“Then I’ll ask if you can eat in the kitchen.” Harry said. Dobby sniffed as tears welled in his large protruding eyes. He bit his lip and ducked back under the table and returned to his self-appointed task. Harry repressed a sigh at the excessive reaction, but he couldn’t expect Dobby to change overnight.

“So, are we ready to talk?” Hermione asked, pulling out her notes and flipping through a few pages. “We’re scheduled for shopping today, but we don’t have a specific timetable.”

“Aunt Petunia wants me home before they go to bed, which is usually around nine.” Harry said, thanking Tom as he accepted his breakfast and began eating with gusto.

“Uh, we snuck out, so we’d like to avoid our mum for as long as possible.” Fred said and scooped the last bit of jam off his plate with a chunk of toast. Monica fixed all four redheads with a steely glare and didn’t even notice when Tom delivered her food.

“You just up and left your poor mother without telling her where you were going?”

“Fred left her a message. Besides, she’s got an enchanted clock that tells her where we all are.” Ron pointed out. Harry remembered the odd clock that told the location or status of each family member instead of the time. Ron’s mum would know her children weren’t in mortal peril, but ‘traveling’ probably wasn’t very reassuring.

“After this conversation, you are going to go tell her where you are.” Monica insisted. Fred grudgingly volunteered George, who in turn suggested Ginny, but she flatly refused to weather the brunt of their mother’s anger. The siblings bickered back and forth for several minutes before Hermione finally snapped.

“That’s enough! I don’t care which of you goes—draw straws and get it over with! Dobby, would you please put up a privacy ward before you leave?” She braced herself against the table and prepared to start the meeting. “Alright, has everyone been briefed on the system and the likely effect it will have on the economy in both the muggle and magical world?”

Silence greeted her question until Ginny held up her hand. “I don’t understand anything you just said.” The other Weasleys groaned. Hermione sighed and began explaining from square one. By the time she got to the fact that her parents were magical, and most other muggles might get the choice in late August, everyone else had finished eating breakfast, and her father took over with a theory about how muggles were likely to react.

“It’ll depend on how the system works and how the British government reacts to the change. Being magical doesn’t mean anything without training, but it does mean a lot more people will be able to see this pub. Muggle repelling wards won’t work, and we can’t predict how any individual will react when they inevitably discover magical society. In general, humans fear what they don’t understand, and suspect the worst when faced with an unknown. They might even blame wizards for upsetting their safe, comfortable lives. Several guides in the help menu imply fossil fuel technology is going to stop working, which means no more cars, airplanes, or motorboats. Bombs won’t work, either, thank heaven, but people will still want someone to blame, and they’re probably going to choose you—or rather, us.”

“They won’t be able to do much for long.” Monica cut in, waving a spoon for emphasis as she prepared her second cup of tea. “The second stage of integration will force everyone to either adapt or die trying. The magic that used to govern specific combustion reactions will be re-purposed to create ‘monsters.’ The guide doesn’t give many details, but Wendell figures they might appear or ‘spawn’ in specific areas. The system seems to borrow heavily from muggle fantasy games, so my husband is spent last night fantasizing about monster-slaying and chain-mail bikinis. Honey, do you have any of those books handy? The guides, not the manuals.”

“Yeah.” Wendell produced a slim paperback game guide for Wizardry VII: Crusaders of the Dark Savant. “It’s not exactly the same, but the concept is similar. I’m pretty sure we’ll end up with random dungeons like this, but chain-mail bikinis are too much to hope for. Not that I’d ever let my daughter wear something like that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and added Ginny, Fred, and George to a list of people who were fully informed about the system. Fred took the book and flipped it open to the index, scanning the different sections while Ginny and Ron leaned over to read with him. Setting her notepad next to her empty plate, Hermione cleared her throat.

“Anyway, the first major hurdle for you guys won’t be the muggles. It’ll be the Ministry. I’m sure your dad will be put to work dealing with the general confusion and mayhem, but personally, I think you’d be better off leaving the area until the transition is over. We don’t know what will happen with Gringotts, but the muggle economy is going to tank, so we need to get what we can before that happens. 

“Mum’s in charge of logistics, so if you think you can contribute to our supply list, let her know. You’ll also need someone to reach out to your extended family. Remember, people might literally die if they’re not ready, so if you leave someone in the dark, you could be signing their death warrant.”

The Weasleys froze, looking up from the manual. “It’s that serious? I mean, I’m not doubting you or anything, but that’s a huge claim to make. If you want us to voluntarily contact Aunt Muriel . . .” George shivered, then looked across the table to his twin. “Fred, you’ve got the system thing. Do you buy this?”

Fred exhaled and passed the game guide to Ginny. His hands shook ever so slightly as he tried to decide what to say. “George . . . even if they’re wrong about some minor details, the system is real. You saw me use the inventory—that alone is revolutionary and impossible for the Ministry to control. With the message system, Errol can finally retire, and Mum won’t be able to intercept our mail. I’m not completely sold on the rampant anarchy, but I don’t want anyone to die if the worst does happen.”

“Still, Aunt Muriel . . .” George shuddered again, gripping his cooling tea like a floundering lifeboat. “Let’s let Dad decide. He’s the head of the family, so technically, it’s his decision.”

“Mr. Weasley is your group leader, then. Harry, you should probably consider adding him since Ron apparently wasted his extra invitation on Fred. If he adds Bill, and Mr. Weasley adds Charlie, they should be able to stay in contact with everyone in their immediate family.” Hermione paused, tapping her pen against her notepad. “Ron, didn’t you mention you had an accountant in the family?”

“Uh, yeah, Cousin Albert. He lives in the village, but we never talk to him. Dad calls him on the fellytone sometimes, but it never ends well. The man’s wife and kids don’t have a clue about magic. They think Dad’s a total nutcase.”

“Do you think you could you get his number?” At some point during the discussion, Wendell had taken out his own notebook, which looked like an extraordinarily slim laptop computer. “We need to get the most out of our assets, and an accountant who believes in magic would be a godsend. If he doesn’t like wizards, we’ll probably have better luck convincing him, too.”

“I’d have to ask Dad.” Ron shrugged, munching on a fresh basket of rolls. 

“Are there any magical essentials apart from wands and brooms?” Hermione asked, turning to a new page in her notepad. “We need to make a list of things that’ll be hard to get if society collapses. Remember, galleons are almost the same as system currency, so we don’t want to spend galleons on things we can get with muggle money.”

“I guess there’s the wizarding wireless.” Fred mused. “Most enchantments are made to order, so mass-produced stuff like brooms are few and far between. Good luggage is hard to make on your own, but the Ministry started regulating the volume of undetectable expansion charms after Newt Scamander started carting fully-grown dragons around the country.”

“Everyone says they made that law to combat smuggling, but we figure they really just wanted to keep Scamander out of the country.” George whispered. 

“He made life so difficult for honest smugglers.” Fred wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, then jumped back on topic. “If you want to study potions, a portable stasis cupboard is a good investment. Those can be pricey, but they let you stock up on ingredients without worrying about stuff going bad.”

“You could get a wizarding tent. They’re pretty handy for when you’re away from home. Dad got free tickets to a quidditch game in Wales a few years ago, and he borrowed one from his assistant. It smelled like cats, but it was cozy.” George pitched in. “Oh, and watches! There are all kinds of cool watches, and I doubt you’ll find invisibility cloaks for sale, but I sure would love one of those.”

“What about enchanted weapons?” Hermione asked, looking up from her list.

“What, like swords and axes and stuff?” Fred frowned. “There are probably some relics in old pureblood collections, but the goblins don’t sell to wizards anymore.”

“I left the Sword of Gryffindor in Dumbledore’s office.” Harry said, and Ginny’s face went pale. She gripped the game manual with white knuckles as her breath quickened. “There might be more useful stuff hidden in Hogwarts, you know. I kept meaning to explore the Chamber of Secrets, but I never got around to it for some reason.”

“It’s probably the spells.” Hermione’s eyes hardened at the reminder. “He told you why we need Bill, right?” 

“Yeah.” Fred was uncharacteristically solemn as he glanced over at George. “Stuff like that’s really hard to identify, and it’s not actually illegal to charm a witch or wizard, as long as you’re not using an unforgivable. Mum gave our dad a load of love potions before they started dating seriously, and she talks about it all the time.”

“Most families have jewelry that wards off the heavier enchantments, but we don’t have much. Dad and Bill have family rings and I think Mum has a few things from the Prewetts. Bill checks us every time he visits, but he can’t detect everything. Who examined you for charms?” George asked. 

“The Manager of Gringotts.” Harry tapped his fingertips on the table, looking somewhat strained as he struggled to keep his thoughts away from the circular mind trap. Hermione had a similar look on her face, but she seemed to be using spiteful rage to cope with the spells instead of Harry’s forced indifference. “We can’t mention specifics, but Bill seemed like the most trustworthy person we can go to for help. There’s a chance the charms are from a teacher, so we can’t ask Madam Pomfrey or Dumbledore, and I don’t trust St. Mungos to keep my information private.”

“You met Ragnok Ironclaw!?” Ron gasped. 

“Yeah?” Harry furrowed his bride, confused by the fear in Ron’s voice. “He checked us for spells and introduced me to my account manager. He was very nice.”

All four Weasley children froze. Ron’s tenth roll dropped onto the table with a soft thump, and Ginny peered over the top of her book with wide eyes. “Harry . . .” Fred started, sharing a dark look with George, who voiced both their conclusions. “Your account manager should have contacted you as soon as you started learning to write. The goblins have strict rules about inheritance, and they would have wanted to verify their investment, especially since you’re the last of your line.”

“They’d have a job contacting me at the Dursleys. If Bloodaxe sent me letters, Vernon probably burned them. The first letter I ever got was from Hogwarts, and they grabbed that right out of my hands.”

“Y - You never got my letters?” Ginny whispered, eyes wide in dawning realization. “I cried for days when you didn’t write back. Mum said you probably got tons of mail, so you couldn’t possibly answer every letter. We never imagined you were that cut off. I mean, the Prophet ran stories about you every year.”

“I never got anything, and I never saw any reporters.” Harry said, looking at Ginny with sympathy. “I’d have loved to get a friendly letter, and I definitely would have answered. I’m so sorry, Ginny.”

“You probably have a mail ward mixed in with the other enchantments.” George mused. “Bill uses one to keep owls from tracking him down when he’s in the ruins. Go ahead and add him, Ron. Harry really does need his help.”

“Yeah, alright.” Ron muttered and squinted at something no one else could see. “How do I . . . Aha! Got it!” A quill and parchment appeared on the desk, and Ron started writing out something in a complicated code, though Harry knew it was just the system’s way of keeping messages private. “Sorry if that took you by surprise, Bill, but we really need to contact you and owls just aren’t fast enough . . .” Ron dictated as he wrote, and the rest of the Weasleys took the opportunity to add their thoughts and opinions to the letter. Fred added Bill to his list, and Harry made sure his own was automatically updated. The Grangers discussed their plans for the afternoon while the Weasleys and Harry took turns writing to Bill. By the time they had each written separate letters, Bill finally wrote back.

Ron,

You nearly scared me to death! I was right in the middle of solving a pressure puzzle, and I thought I messed up and hit some kind of curse. Whatever this is doesn’t feel like magic, but I get why you’re all worried. Tell Harry I’ll see him before his deadline, and we’ll talk about this ‘system’ business after I have time to sit down and examine it more closely. If you think it’s real, talk to Dad and see what he wants to do. My team and I need to finish this corridor before we can take a break, but I’ll tell them I have a family emergency, which is the truth.

See you soon,

Bill

Harry relaxed as Ron finished reading the letter. He still hadn’t told anyone else about his unwelcome hitchhiker. He’d seen how pale Ginny was when he mentioned the Chamber of Secrets. He didn’t want to know how she’d react if she knew her unwanted guest was living in his brain. Ron would try to help, but he wasn’t the best at secrets, and Harry really didn’t want this getting around.

“That’s really from Bill?” Ginny asked, taking the sheet of paper Ron had printed from his mailbox. “That’s . . . that’s amazing! You can just write whenever, and he’ll get your letter no matter where he is? Oh, Mum’s going to love this.” She giggled and trailed a pink fingertip down each line of the letter.

“Think she’ll forgive us for running off if we shove that in her face?” George asked.

“I think at least one of you better go find out.” Monica began stacking her dishes while Wendell and Harry went to settle up with Tom. “Your poor mum must be worried sick, no matter where her clock is pointing.”

“Aww . . .” Ron groaned. “Monica, would you come with me? That way Mum’ll know we were supervised and I think . . . yeah, Harry, you should come, too. We can say it was an emergency and you needed our help.”

Monica Granger stifled a laugh as she tousled Ron’s hair until it looked almost as untidy as Harry’s. “Alright. I’ll take one for the team. Come on Harry! Let’s step into the breach, shall we?”

The three valiant soldiers rose from the table and Wendell hummed a slow march that made Hermione clap a hand over her mouth as she snorted with laughter. “Dad! Mum isn’t Darth Vader!”

“Let him have his fun, sweetie.” Monica grinned. “If I’m Darth Vader that means he’s Padmé.”

Ron shot Harry a puzzled look as they counted out sickles for the collection tin.

“You’re talking about Star Wars, right?” Harry asked with a fond smile as he recognized the cultural reference.“Dudley was obsessed with that series for a while, but the force was too much like magic. Aunt Petunia banned it from the house and threw all his toys and games away.”

“Blasphemy!” Wendell gasped. “We really do need to have a movie night, kid. Nobody should be deprived of Star Wars. Hermione even dressed up as Princess Leia for Halloween one year. If you ask nicely, I bet Monica will show you pictures.”

“No!” Hermione shrieked. “Never! Don’t you dare ask, Harry!”

“Um, okay?” Harry said cautiously. Were the photos really that bad? Dudley had a ton of pictures around the house, but the concept was totally alien to Harry. He didn’t even know what he looked like when he was little and he’d never been to a Halloween party before Hogwarts. Petunia begrudgingly allowed Dudley to attend the community costume party dressed as whatever television character was most popular that year, but Harry was always locked in the cupboard for the day without meals. Hermione must have realized what he was thinking because she seemed to wilt for a moment, then gave a sharp nod before changing the subject. 

“Right. You better go.” She said with authority. “We’ll delegate shopping areas and decide on a meeting place while you’re gone.”

The remaining Weasleys grouped together and Hermione pulled a regular notebook out of her inventory so she could make proper plans. Ron, Harry, and Monica stepped up to the floo and tossed a few sickles in the collection tin. They each took a handful of powder and the two boys spent a few seconds trying and failing to explain how the floo system worked. Neither actually knew very much, but Ron told Monica to tuck in her elbows, and Harry explained how he landed in the wrong place after slurring his words. Eventually, Fred threatened to push Ron into the fire if he didn’t get moving, and they stopped stalling. 

One by one, Ron, Harry, and Monica Granger jumped into the emerald fire, calling out their destination. The three travelers hurtled through the floo network, spinning round and round in a whirl of rushing wind and crackling flames. Harry kept his eyes closed this time, but he still remembered the sickening flashes of lit rooms and talking people. Seconds felt like an eternity, but soon enough, he found himself stumbling out of the fireplace in the Weasley’s kitchen. 

“. . . FIRST THE CAR AND NOW THIS! NEVER IN ALL MY YEARS! OUT OF BED AND GONE WITH ONLY A SMUDGED MIRROR TO LET ME KNOW YOU HADN’T BEEN SNATCHED IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT!”

Harry glanced at the mirror in question and stifled a laugh. One of the twins had scrawled, ‘Gone for breakfast! Be back later! Love, The Youngest Four,’ on the mirror in smears of black soot.

“NOT TO MENTION STICKING POOR PERCY WITH ALL YOUR CHORES! I'LL HAVE YOU FOUR SCRUBBING FOR THE REST OF THE . . .” Mrs. Weasley froze, gaping at her kitchen’s new occupant. “Harry? Oh, Harry, dear, did my boys rescue you again?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Ron huffed, crossing his arms and leaning back against the kitchen table. “Harry sent me a message . . .”

Ron had barely opened his mailbox when the floo flared again and Monica stepped out of the fireplace. She stumbled slightly, but landed more gracefully than Harry, dusting the soot off her robes as she stared at the entirely magical kitchen. Mrs. Weasley had a heap of dishes self-washing in the sink, Celestina Warbeck’s distinctive warble was piping through a small wireless set in the family room, and despite all that, you could still hear the distant clucking of the chickens. It was a lovely if chaotic home and Monica beamed at the comfortable, rustic atmosphere.

“Good morning, Molly—lovely to see you again.” Monica Granger swept in past the two boys and deftly kissed a stunned Molly Weasley on the cheek. “I’m so sorry for barging in on you, but it seems my daughter and her friend caused quite a bit of trouble. You must have been so worried.”

Molly returned the friendly gesture, but the arrival of a known muggle in her kitchen had knocked her completely off-kilter. “O - Oh, not at all, Monica. I’m delighted to see you again. Please, sit down. I’ll fetch a spot of tea and we’ll chat.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron, who was staring at Hermione’s mum in awed silence. They shared a look and silently agreed that Monica might be the best diplomat in the entire world. The three of them drifted over to the table while Molly bustled about making tea. Monica took a seat near the fire, still examining the many magical bits and bobs that cluttered the Weasley home.

“Here we are.” Molly said, pouring a stiff Irish Breakfast tea into four mismatching mugs. “I do hope you’ll excuse the mess.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Monica grinned, accepting a mug with bumblebees on the rim. “You have a lovely home. It reminds me of the fairy cottage from Sleeping Beauty.”

“That’s a muggle children’s story.” Harry whispered as he spotted the blank look on Ron’s face. The pureblood witch and her son both voiced their sudden comprehension. 

“Oh,” Molly blushed, looking at the cluttered kitchen with new eyes. “That sounds like Beadle the Bard. I didn’t know muggles had different stories. I didn’t know they could use the floo, either.”

“They probably can’t,” Monica stated flatly. “That’s one of the things Harry needed to talk to your son about. Ron, do you have his letter handy?” 

“Er, yeah. Hang on.” Ron opened his menu and fumbled for the print button before passing the resulting paper to his mother. She looked like she was about to launch into another tirade, so he hurried to cut her off. “It’s not really magic, Mum. Read the letter.”

“There’s one from Bill, too.” Harry elbowed Ron, prompting him to print a second sheet.

“What?” Molly snatched both letters from her youngest son and read them several times in quick succession. Her eyes darted to Harry, who looked embarrassed and a bit guilty, and then to Monica Granger, who assumed the letter must mention her sudden access to magic because the witch was obviously trying to detect some visual trace of it.

“I - Is this true? You really have magic? And someone put some kind of enchantment on the children? Are you sure?” The woman looked concerned, but there was something in her expression that made Monica put up her guard. People lied about their dental hygiene all the time, and she’d gotten pretty good at spotting familiar tells before her patients even opened their mouths to speak. Molly wasn’t lying, but she was feeling guilty about something. That made Monica suspect she might have known about the spells. Neither of the children noticed, but Harry probably couldn’t, and no child would ever suspect their own mother. 

Monica bit her lip, considering the possible scenarios. To charm Molly, a witch or wizard would have had to bypass her protections and fool a professional curse breaker. That was possible but very unlikely. Of course, there were other ways to influence people. Money, power, and protection were the most common, but Molly Weasley didn’t seem like the kind of woman who coveted money or power. That left protection as the most likely motivator, but she’d still never willingly hurt a child. Either way, it would be safer to feign ignorance until they had competent magical backup. 

“About the enchantments, yes. Hermione had a complete meltdown last night. She kept thinking in circles every time she tried to string together the facts. She’s terrified someone could mess with her mind so easily without her knowledge.”

“Seriously.” Harry grumbled. “I knew something was wrong, but it kept slipping my mind.” 

“Oh, dear! And you spent all year with that monster! Heaven only knows what he might have done to innocent children!” She exclaimed before pulling Harry and Ron into a bone-crushing hug. 

“Which monster is this, now?” Monica asked, pretending to sip her tea. “The giant serpent, the evil diary, or the potions master with hygiene issues?”

“Merlin, don’t remind me. I’d keep the children home if I could, but they need their qualifications and we can’t afford to hire tutors. No, I was talking about Gilderoy Lockhart. Didn’t you hear what he did to those witches? It was in the paper last Tuesday, but I don’t suppose you get the Daily Prophet?”

“No, Wendell tried to get a subscription, but they don’t deliver to muggle-owned houses. It’s against some regulation.” Monica sighed, sitting back in her chair.

“What else did that berk do?” Ron asked, extricating himself from his mother’s arms.

“You don’t need to hear the details, dear, but you know Lockhart was sent to St. Mungos after attempting an illegal obliviation with a broken wand, right?”

Three heads nodded, and Molly took that as permission to continue. “Well, when the Aurors went to investigate his quarters, they found a massive cache of memories stored in his vanity. Some were from the poor people he used as inspiration for his books, but others . . .” She glanced up at Monica meaningfully, then glanced at the two boys. “It’s not something I can discuss with little ears in the room, but I’ll see if I can send you a copy of the article, Monica. Some of the victims are still being treated for trauma.”

Ron and Harry exchanged puzzled looks, but didn’t press the issue. Lockhart was an evil git no matter what else he might have done. It did kind of make Ron a hero, though, since his wand knocked the criminal out of commission.

“I always knew that man was no good.” Molly said, slamming her chipped mug on the table. “If he did anything to harm my children, I’ll march right into the Janus Thickey Ward and curse his tackle off!” 

Monica paled. “You don’t think . . .”

“No, those victims were all pretty girls in their early twenties, but I’d still feel better if the children were tested. You never know what people like that are capable of, and Harry took at least one detention alone with him last year, didn’t you, dear?” 

“Er, yeah. He made me answer his mail.” The young wizard shivered. “That was the first time I heard the basilisk in the walls.”

“You poor dear.” She said, smoothing his hair as she poured him more tea. 

“Well, once your eldest son arrives, we should be able to get some answers.” Monica said, watching Molly closely as she mothered her daughter’s best friend. The woman seemed sincere, but she was definitely hiding something. Was she offering an excuse for the tests so the caster wouldn’t get suspicious, or was there something else . . . ? Monica mentally added a few topics to her research list as she continued speaking. “Harry can’t go to St. Mungos, and the spells must be beyond Madam Pomfrey. She didn’t notice them at the end of the school year.”

Molly paused and wet her lips, looking down at her tea as she spoke. “Healers are in a tricky spot when it comes to mental charms and compulsions. A lot of old families still use magic to enforce certain viewpoints or behaviors, and it’s not easy to tell who cast a particular spell. She probably assumed the charms were cast by Harry’s guardian, but if he specifically asked her to remove them, she would be oath-bound to comply unless his legal guardian told her otherwise.”

“Do you know who his guardian is?” Monica pushed. “Harry thought it was his aunt, but Madam Pomfrey would know she’s a muggle, so there has to be someone else in charge of his welfare.”

Mrs. Weasley pressed her lips together, her calloused fingers gripping a cloth napkin. A spark of apprehension flickered in her kind blue eyes, and Harry almost missed his mouth with his mug. This had to be another clue. Ron’s mother knew who his elusive guardian was, and that had to be important. Harry flashed back to a busy train station and a familiar crowd of red-heads.

‘Packed with muggles of course—Now, what’s the platform number?’—the scene played over and over in his head, drawing attention to little details about the family’s convenient appearance. The wife of a government employee should know better than to shout about muggles in a busy station. She shouldn’t have needed to ask about the platform number, either. It never changed, and she’d been making the trip two to six times a year for over a decade. A funny sort of ringing echoed between Harry’s ears as his thoughts spun out of control. 

His ‘guardian’ had to be someone both Mrs. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey knew. Fighting to stay focused, Harry pulled out his notebook and added this clue to his rather extensive list. Ron looked over his friend’s shoulder, poked his best friend in the ribs, pointed at what he saw as a spiral notebook, and then at himself. Harry shook his head and mouthed, ‘Later,’ as he continued to take notes.

“I have an idea, but it’s best the details aren’t widely known.” Molly explained, and Monica caught a familiar twitch in her jaw. “A lot of influential people expressed interest in raising The-Boy-Who-Lived, and not all of them had his best interests in mind. The Wizengamot held a closed session and voted to seal the Potter wills for Harry’s protection. During that session, the identity of his guardian was declared a state secret, and all further petitions for guardianship were denied.”

“That doesn’t seem like a sound legal decision.” Monica muttered. “Especially since even Harry doesn’t know who he’s supposed to rely on. What’s the point of a guardian if they aren’t there to support you?”

Molly flinched, placing a hand over her mouth as her eyes began to water. She took a deep breath and forced herself to speak. “I’m sure they have his best interests in mind, but I agree. Harry’s home is far from ideal. I offered to take him myself, but he needs to live with a maternal blood relative to maintain the protections offered by his mother’s sacrifice.”

Monica’s eyes narrowed as she paused to digest that little tidbit—yet another topic she needed to discuss with an expert. Everything seemed to hinge on Ron’s eldest brother, and she wasn’t sure that was wise. Personally, she would have taken the goblin’s offer, but Harry had a right to decide who to trust. She glanced at the boy, who was staring down at his notebook with a glazed look in his eyes. Ron looked like he was about three seconds from screaming for help.

“Hang on, Molly. Harry’s stuck in his head.” Monica got up and pulled her daughter’s best friend into a tight hug. “This happened to Hermione last night. Ron, you like sports. Talk about squidditch or something. We need to break his mind out of the loop.”

Ron snorted, slapping his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. “Sorry, I know I really shouldn’t laugh, but can you imagine if all the chasers had to play with a wriggling ball of live calamari?”

Harry snickered weakly. “Don’t let Fred or George hear that or it might actually happen.” 

“Harry!” Ron said, “You alright, mate?”

“Yeah. Stupid spells.”

“If Harry and Hermione both have the same enchantments, we should get you checked, too, Ron. I’ll ask Aunt Muriel if she has any protective items she can spare. Or, we can ask Bill to teach you occlumency. That’s supposed to help with most mind magic.”

“I don’t want extra lessons! We’ve got enough to deal with, already!”

“If you have time to run off before breakfast, you can manage an extra lesson or two.” 

“Let’s save this for another time, Molly,” Monica said as she checked her watch. “If you and Arthur are free later today, Wendell and I really need to discuss what happened to us. I’m sure you noticed that neither of these letters came from owls?”

“Yes, this isn’t even parchment.” Molly smoothed her fingers over Bill’s letter. “Are you sure it’s from Bill? Can you contact Charlie as well?”

“Yes, and not yet. It’s not easy to explain, but it’s extremely important, so I want to make sure Arthur hears it, too. I’m going to have our house registered on the floo network, so we should be able to stop by after I drive Harry to his aunt’s house.”

“Of course, Arthur would be delighted to talk with you. I suppose Fred, George, and Ginny are with your husband? If they think running away is going to soften me up, they’re dead wrong.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved to the smeared message on the mirror.

“They are but don’t be too hard on them. As wild hijinks go, it could have been worse. Hermione told us about that flying car in her letters. That was worth a good grounding.” 

Ron and Harry flinched as Molly’s stern gaze fixed on them. Harry grabbed all four mugs and dashed to the sink while Ron slumped over like a melting wax sculpture. Monica’s lips twitched as she stood up from the table.

“How do you want to handle this, Molly? You and Percy are welcome to come with us, or I can send all your kids home if you want to punish them. Wendell and I could use their help, though. Harry and Hermione know a lot, but they miss things that are obvious to people who were raised in the magical world.”

Mrs. Weasley stared at her son with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “Oh, I suppose―but you’re still in trouble, young man. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. Percy has to take his NEWTs this year. He doesn’t have time to do everyone’s chores on top of his own. You, Fred, George, and Ginny will be sharing his responsibilities for the rest of the summer. Is that clear?”

“Awww, Mum,” Ron whined.

“Don’t give me that! You’re getting exactly what you deserve. Enjoy your last bit of fun and be back in time for supper. I’d go with you, but I’m not dressed for an outing and I’m sure Percy’s up to his knees in mud by now.” She gave Ron a light shove toward the fireplace and then turned toward Harry, who was having a whispered argument with Dobby. The house elf had a second sense for chores and turned up the second Harry tried to turn on the water. Now he was giving the dust and clutter an eager eye as he responded to Harry’s hushed whispers with one or two word answers. “Oh, hello there—I didn’t know you had an elf, Harry.”

“I don’t own him, Mrs. Weasley, but he is bound to my family. Dobby—stop, you can’t just—I’m sorry Mrs. Weasley. He’s got a lot of pent up energy and really wants to clean your house. Do you mind if he helps Percy while we’re shopping?”

“That would be wonderful! I’d love some help tidying the house and I know Percy will be grateful,” Molly said, smoothing the collar of Harry’s shirt and resting both palms on his cheeks. “I swear, you boys grow like beanstalks, but I think you could still use a few extra meals, Harry. I’ll send some pies with Ron’s next letter, alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>  _Next Chapter is completed, and will be up Dec. 29, 2020_   
>  _**Dec. 29, 2020:** Minor spelling and or grammar corrections._


	4. The Last Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and company take a trip to the other side. Also shopping . . . lots of shopping.

CHAPTER THREE

The Last Stop

“We’ve got our OWLs this year!” Fred said as they shuffled along the narrow cobbled street. “How come Percy gets special treatment?”

It was just after nine when the mismatched group finally shuffled out of the inn. Not a lot of people were out and about yet, but the stores were all open and the cobbled street seemed cleaner in the light of day. Without crowds or nighttime shadows, Harry noticed more about the alley itself. The storefronts were old-fashioned, but they also had that artistic flourish you never saw in the sharp angles of modern buildings. The construction didn’t seem as impossible as the burrow, but the shops used so many expansion charms the interiors would overlap like a venn diagram if anyone tried to map out the physical space.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Have you even looked at your summer homework yet?”

“That’s beside the point!” Both twins exclaimed in stereo. 

“At least you guys can do your homework without sneaking around in the dead of night.” Harry said, peering down into a storm drain and wondering if it actually connected to the muggle sewers. He caught a flash of movement and just managed to jump back as a slimy lump of ooze slapped the street where Harry had been standing. “Ack! Did you see that?”

“Sewer slime.” George set his arm on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Dad says the Ministry breeds them for waste management,” Fred elaborated. 

The trail of acidic green slime sizzled as it oozed back into the gutter, assaulting their noses with the stench of dead fish and sour lemons. Harry's stomach lurched. He shoved George aside, clapping a hand over his mouth and struggling to keep his gorge down as the stench caught in his lungs. Both twins laughed as the younger boy rushed back to the rest of the group. H was never visiting Diagon Alley at night again一not if those slimes were oozing all over the cobblestones.

Several minutes later, the group stopped outside Ollivander’s, faced with an unforeseen problem. The wand shop was the size of a large closet.

“We can’t all fit in there.” Harry coughed, still trying to get the smell out of his system. As he spoke, the twins came running up behind him. George was missing his left sock and had a few suspicious burn marks on his trousers. Fred grinned, shaking a jam jar full of viscous green liquid at Harry before dropping it deftly into his inventory. 

“I suppose we’ll have to go in turns,” Hermione said. “Mum, Dad, and Ron all need wands, so they should go in first. I’ll ask about backups and wand-craft.”

“Right, we’ll wait . . . over there.” Harry pointed at a colorful shop with a striped awning. It had a tent sign outside the open glass door proclaiming ‘Madam Calliope Vane: Tea, Tarts, and Tasseomancy.’ Ginny giggled, then blushed bright red and turned sharply away. For some reason, the twins were thrilled, and Harry felt a thrill of fear as George led Harry, Fred, and Ginny to the tea shop, waving goodbye to Ron and the Grangers.

The inside of the shop was—there was no other word for it—bizarre. If you took a circus tent, mashed it together with a French mansion, and smothered the resulting travesty in gaudy beads and garlands, you might come close to the divination shop’s aesthetic. Harry blinked twice. At least the heady musk of burning incense knocked the smell of slime from his nose.

The odd group settled at a fussy ornate table and ordered tea. Harry ordered treacle tart, and considered stock-piling them for the apocalypse. Madam Calliope Vane was just as odd as her shop. She was a large, well-endowed woman in her mid to late fifties with sleek black curls and a painted mole under her right eye. Her robes were a hand-stitched amalgamation of outdated muggle clothes and robes he’s only ever seen in A History of Magic. He’d never seen that many ruffles, ribbons, buttons, and lace on anything at Madam Malkin’s. 

Madam Vane made a show of pouring their tea, laughing brightly behind a beaded silk fan, and carefully examining each empty cup with a knowing look, a sly wink, and a smile. All of their readings had something to do with change and impending danger, but she also told Ginny a dark-haired man would break her heart and her soul mate was a badger.

“Another mole. They’ve been popping up like, well . . . ” She said, pursing her lips as she turned Fred’s cup. “Moles, daggers, hats, puffskeins. I haven’t seen this many dark omens since the war. I’m afraid we may be in for difficult times, Mr. Potter.”

Harry froze, muscles going taught as his eyes widened in dread. Madam Vane traded the cup in her hands for his and studied the clumped leaves at the bottom. The seer didn’t so much as glance at his scar, but a slight crease appeared between her well-groomed brows as she read his cup. 

“Yes, I know who you are. My daughter will never forgive me if I don’t get you don’t sign something, but let’s see, now—the lighthouse—you will be a guide in the darkness, a rock in a sea of change—the grim—death is in your path, but it will not bar your way . . .” 

Madam Vane trailed off as she reached the next symbol. Harry’s heart raced. It looked like a cross or a lumpy spider, but the previous omens had been frighteningly accurate, so he needed to know. The fortune teller’s eyes lost focus, her lips parted, and the teacup slipped from her fingers, cracking as it hit the table. Her alto voice was suddenly dripping with honey, and when Harry inhaled, he caught the scent of cloves instead of incense. 

“Fly from Death, sweet raven dear,  
Fight the threads you bear,  
A stag lost in the shadows dark,  
A dog in cold despair,  
A wolf caught in the spider’s web,  
A rat upon your chair,  
Hold them tight. Call them home,  
It’s time to start a war,  
Games are only won after  
You settle up the score.”

“Oh, my sweet, darling child . . .” Madam Vane’s dark brown eyes flashed radiant gold, piercing Harry’s soul like needles. “You would make such a beautiful pawn. It’s not too late. Spurn death’s scythe. Pledge your soul to my design, I’ll weave you a tapestry worthy of the sagas.”

Harry was drowning in soporific sweetness, tones so unlike the woman who was speaking. Madam Vane’s eyes were pools of molten sunshine, striking his heart with images of daring heroics and deep tragedy. For a moment he was tempted. The highs were so bright you almost missed the lows—all the pain, grief, and terror that came after the adventure was done. He forced himself to remember the smell of burning flesh, the throb of deadly venom, the horrible white of the hospital wing, and Dumbledore’s sad, knowing smile—that was the truth behind the glory, and if he had a choice, he’d never play the hero again. 

Gasping for breath, Harry wrenched his eyes away. He was gripping the table so hard his fingernails were digging into the wood. Sweat beaded on his brow as he breathed sugar and spice. “Never . . . Never again . . .”

And just like that, the vision was gone. Madam Vane blinked rapidly, fluttering her thick lashes as she took in Harry’s stiff posture and wide eyes. “Sweet Mother of Morgana, d - did I say something odd—a vision—a prophecy? It’s never happened to me before, but my great aunt used to blackout all the time.”

“You sounded like you were possessed . . .” Ginny’s face was white, her eyes wide with fear. She must have jumped up during the recitation because she was standing with her back against the door, her hand tight on the doorknob and her wand poised to strike.

“Yes, the voice of fate can be rather alarming, but it’s normal for a seer. I don’t suppose you could tell me what I said? The Department of Mysteries records all genuine prophecies, but they’re impossible to access unless the wording refers to you.”

“That was bizarre . . .” Fred whispered. “Trelawney’s never done that in class.” 

George nodded frantically, his empty cup all but forgotten on his saucer. “Your eyes lit up with this bright light and you kind of . . . put Harry in a trance.”

“I’m sorry . . .” Harry shivered, mentally scribbling the words in his notebook for Hermione. “The message you gave me was . . .” He bit his lip, running a hand through his hair as his eyes darted toward Ginny and the door. “I’d rather keep it private if I can. I’ll let you know if it comes true, though.”

“That’s fine, dear. I was just curious. I’ll be listed as the seer, either way, so my professional reputation is bound to get a boost.” Madam Vane jumped and twirled around the shop with girlish excitement, her corseted bosom bouncing dangerously. “Oh, wait until Romilda hears! She’ll be so excited! Oh, stars above! I almost forgot . . .”

Dashing through a pair of beaded brocade curtains, the middle-aged fortune teller vanished. Harry heard several bangs and thumps from the back room, followed by pounding footsteps as the thickly-padded woman ran back into the tea room, clutching a childish drawing of a black-haired boy flying a broom to escape a fire-breathing dragon. 

“I know you must get asked all the time, but it would mean the world to my daughter if you’d sign this. My ex-husband turned her on to those silly novels when she was six, and she’s been coming up with all these fanciful stories about dragons and merfolk and great evil vipers. I send her things to the publisher all the time, but we never get a reply.”

Harry swallowed, looking from the twins to Ginny and back to the colored sketch, which was surprisingly good for a child’s work. The black dragon roared animatedly and shot little jets of fire at miniature Harry, but he zipped easily out of the way, diving for a shining gold glitter near the dragon’s feet. He looked up, uncomfortable, and more than a little nervous. He’d been asked for autographs before, obviously, but this was a grown woman, not a jittery first year. 

“Madam Vane . . .” He swallowed. “You - you know I’m just a normal kid, right? I didn’t even know about magic until I turned eleven, and I swear I’ve never outflown a dragon. Are you sure you really want me to sign this?”

“Oh, honey, of course, I do. I know the books are fanciful nonsense, but they exist, and unless you want a big legal battle and a terrible reputation, they’re not going away. You might be a normal boy, but you’re still a celebrity.”

“She’s right, you know.” Fred said with a surprising degree of sincerity. “Remember what happened in the bookstore last year?”

George nodded. “Not to mention that titchy little first year with the camera. We thought about making commemorative posters, but he got petrified, and we lost our chance.”

“Please don’t make any merchandise . . .” Harry slumped down in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “I wish I could just tell everyone to leave me alone.”

“You could try, but you’d sound like a right arse.” Fred said, pouring a fresh cup of tea over his leaves. “That’s at least two little girls who sent you letters and never got a reply. It’s not your fault, but you’ve been back two years now, and people probably think you’ve been ignoring them.”

“I wonder where all the letters went . . .” Ginny mused, staring out the shop window.

“Probably Gringotts.” Harry rubbed his eyes and pulled a quill out of his inventory. “Well, I hope Romilda enjoys my first ever autograph.”

Scrawling a clumsy signature in bright green ink, Harry reluctantly said goodbye to his denial. The twins were right. Even Dudley wrote thank you notes when he got gifts from people he didn’t see that often, though his mother had to bribe him most of the time. Still, he did it in the end. With that in mind, Harry wrote a quick apology to his—shudder—fan explaining about the wards, reiterating that the children’s books were complete fiction, and thanking Romilda for her support.

By the time he finished writing, Ron and Wendell wandered into the shop. Madam Vane gave Harry a warm smile, placed several preservation spells on the drawing, and set off to fetch another tray of tea and tarts. Ron was over the moon about his new willow wand and took great pleasure in describing his first real connection to his magic. 

“It was like lifting off the ground for the first time! I never knew what I was missing before! That’s why everything was so hard first year—Mr. Ollivander said inherited wands work okay, but they’re still loyal to their old owners, so they’re harder to tame.”

“Mine’s ten-and-a-quarter inches—cedar and dragon heartstring.” Wendell’s grin lit up the room as he looked at his wand with reverent pride. “I can’t believe this is real. I’d rather play a rogue or a fighter, but seeing a real dragon would be a childhood dream come true.”

“What did Hermione’s mum get?” Harry asked, sliding into a table beside Ron while Madam Vane started telling fortunes at the other table using an exploding snap deck and a set of turquoise dice.

“Nine-and-three-quarter inches. Spruce. Phoenix down core.” Ron said, making his voice sound vaguely like Ollivander’s mystical whisper. He coughed and took a gulp of tea. “She and Hermione are over there pestering the poor man about wand-craft. Like he’s going to give out his family secrets if they just ask the right question fast enough. He can’t sell backup wands, though. You need a special dispensation from the Auror Office to get a legal second wand.”

“He did say we might be able to find old wands in secondhand shops or at estate auctions, so I figure we’ll pick up any that aren’t broken or overpriced. If we end up with spares, I know the girls would love to de-construct them. Of course, we can’t actually use our wands without a qualified instructor until we pass our magical GCSE exams.”

“Your what?” Ron blinked up from his tart.

“Those tests Fred and George take this year.” Harry turned his head as Hermione finally stalked through the door like an angry tiger with a stack of pamphlets and an irate expression. 

“That man is a menace to society! I’ll give you proprietary information, you barmy-eyed codger!” Tossing four pamphlets on the table, she dropped into the chair with a huff. 

“Are you talking about Ollivander?” Ron asked incredulously. 

“Of course I am—the two-faced robber baron! How can one family produce wands for the entire country? I mean, really—if that idiot dies, we’ll be waving twigs and praying for sparks. This doesn’t even hint at the process used to infuse a wand core. It’s infuriating!” Hermione’s hair was charged with electricity, puffing up in a tangle as she spoke.

“Now, sweetie, he can’t be the only wandmaker in the world—he might not even be the best.” Emma Granger squeezed her daughter’s shoulders and began smoothing the static out of her hair. “Save that energy for research, and in the meantime let’s split into groups. We’ll meet inside Flourish and Blotts around one o’clock. That should give us time for bargain hunting and books—you remember our financial goals?”

“Buy for the group, not the individual. Function over form. Stay within the budget.”

“Exactly!” Now that she owned a wand, Monica Granger was sold on the system. The polished wood hummed gently every time she held it, and the rush of power was intoxicating. Magic was amazing, and it finally felt like nothing in the world could rip her family apart. Once the party wrapped up their tea, tarts, and explosive fortunes, they waved goodbye to Madam Vane. Harry also promised to send a letter if he found his missing post. With that, they split into their prearranged groups.

Wendell spent a literal fortune on brooms for each member of his extended family and a few for guests. He didn’t buy the extravagant Firebolt, though Ron spent forty minutes drooling over it with one of the shop attendants. He wanted serviceable brooms that performed well for speed and distance, and eventually went with the new Cleansweep 9 on Ron’s advice. If they had galleons to burn after the audit, he could consider using his mid-life-crisis as an excuse to buy something ridiculous. He took a catalog, just in case. Apart from the brooms, they also purchased two maintenance kits, five tins of handle wood polish, two sets of regulation quidditch balls, four child safety seats, and a collectible moving model of Joey Jenkins, who played beater for Ron’s favorite team.

On his wife’s suggestion, Wendell took out a Daily Prophet subscription and bought a mating pair of owls from Eeylops along with various accessories. The Floo-Pow Service Desk gave him tips on registering with the Floo Regulation Authority, but Wendell decided he’d take care of that while the others combed through the bookstore—especially since the directions to the visitor’s entrance were rather vague.

Meanwhile, Ginny and Monica were chatting amicably as they ordered two full wardrobes at Twilfitt and Tattings. A rude woman who looked like a female version of Vincent Crabb stalked past the interlopers in an angry huff, muttering under her breath. “Can’t keep out the rabble . . . filthy mudbloods and middle-class swine . . . no standards at all!”

Monica watched the door slam with false horror. “Dear, me! What vulgar language! Did I say something to offend her?”

“Not at all, Lady Labarthe,” Veronica Twilfitt said in a high, nasal voice. “Lady Crabb is just—er—very conservative in her views. Not many clients can afford our services, so you’re presence gave her quite a shock.”

“I see—it’s like new money, isn’t it?” Monica turned, playing the role of spoiled heiress. “People just don’t know how to act when they actually had to earn their fortune. Imagine a common peon at a formal ball—disgraceful!” The orthodontist, who very much worked for a living shuddered for effect.

“Exactly! Most muggleborns just don’t understand magical society, and that old fool doesn’t help a bit. The poor children get their letters at eleven, and come in thinking it’s some great adventure—but nobody tells them about our culture. Purebloods can take Muggle Studies, but Hogwarts doesn't have a class for new wizards.”

“Well, there’s History of Magic,” Ginny interjected shyly, “but that might as well be Goblin Studies with the way Professor Binns teaches. I don’t see why Professor Dumbledore doesn’t just replace him.”

“Oh, I agree.” Veronica nodded sagely. “That old goat is driving Hogwarts into the ground. There you are, dear—all finished. Have a seat and Petal will fetch a light snack.”

Ginny hopped down off the stool and hurried over to her chair. She had her doubts when Hermione’s mother chose this shop, but her acting was phenomenal—it was practically Slytherin! Monica even passed them off as cousins despite Ginny’s red hair and obvious Weasley complexion. Of course, it helped that she really was a Lady even if she was also a tooth healer—whatever that was. Muggles were so odd. Swinging her legs back and forth, Ginny tried to think delicate lady thoughts as she ate her fancy petits fours. Nobody was really watching, but it was fun to pretend.

When Veronica finished taking Monica’s measurements, the two women were gossiping like school friends. They lingered over tea, attacking the never-ending tray of cakes while discussing all manner of things from politics to the season’s fashion trends. Eventually, the conversation wound down and Monica tactfully made her excuses. The happy seamstress pressed a few pureblood etiquette books on her as a ‘welcome gift’ to Magical Britain, and they both thanked her as they left her shop.

“That was amazing!” Ginny exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet as they walked down the street. “She didn’t throw us out! You actually got her to like you even though she knew you were a muggleborn! It was positively diabolical!”

“I love messing with designer boutiques like that.” Monica laughed. “I grew up around money, so I know how shops expect rich clients to act. Madam Twilfitt might hate muggleborns, but she loves commissions and validation, just like any other artist. Even if she decides to do a shoddy job later, I get to tell everyone exactly where I got my robes. The more custom I give her, the less ‘exclusively pureblood’ her products become. She is right about wizarding culture, though—they do need a class for new wizards.” 

“If you went to Hogwarts, you’d be in Slytherin for sure!” The eleven-year-old giggled, swinging her bags as she twirled in circles. “We should have her change your color palette to green and silver.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that! I’d take cunning over brash action any day—but enough about that. Let’s take a break from serious shopping and coo over cute animals in the Magical Menagerie.” Monica shifted her grip on her shopping bags and set off down the street. The weightless bags were already quite full with three wireless sets, seven pairs of dragonhide gloves, an owl-order catalog for the apothecary, and an assortment of seed packets from Hobb’s Greenery. They couldn’t find a shop offering real dragonhide armor, but they got a floo address for a couple in Bath who took commissions for hit wizards and members of the dueling circuit. Monica did order several styles of dragonhide shoes with charmed insoles, though, and arranged to have them delivered. Ginny also bought her mother a colorful bouquet of daisies and a card that apologized in a progressively desperate voice if it wasn’t held shut.

While she and Ginny were snuggling magical chinchillas, Wendell sent his wife a message reporting that he’d ordered a full keg of floo powder. Monica ended up buying one of the fuzzy rodents for Ginny along with the necessary supplies—heck, the poor girl didn’t have a pet, and she felt bad for the animals that might get left in the shop after Magical Armageddon. 

She was thinking about getting a dog. As much as she loved kittens, cats could get mean when they grew into their claws, and if the system changed pets into magical creatures, they could end up with a literal monster. Dogs were carnivorous slobber bombs, but they were generally kind and loyal. If you took care of them, they took care of you—end of story. Honestly, with the things she’d been reading in the guide, magical guard dogs seemed like a really good investment. She made a note of it while they headed for what Veronica touted as the best trunk maker in London. 

“I think I’ll call him Pigwidgeon—it’s sweet, don’t you think?” Ginny held the little bundle of fluff close as she skipped down the street. The Chinchilla looked sadly resigned to his fate, forever doomed to be snuggled and bounced by a hyperactive schoolgirl. “He's so much cuter than mangy old Scabbers.” She mimed gagging as they approached the luggage shop.

“Don’t let Ron hear you say that.” Monica laughed.

Veronica turned out to be surprisingly knowledgeable about high-end luggage. Arca Aeternam had all sorts of trunks, bags, boxes, and cabinets with multiple compartments. The largest possible expansion was the size of a small walk-in closet, while the smallest was about the size of a cigar box. Every single item on the floor was unique, and you could request specific warders, enchanters, or craftsmen for custom projects. The showpieces on display had the artistry of a master carpenter with all the impossible convenience magic could offer—as long as the total internal dimensions remained within Ministry regulations.

The inventory system was amazing, of course, but it wasn’t art. Monica ran her fingertips over a fine black walnut trunk. The sides and lid were carved in relief with swirled flourishes and dazzling chrysanthemums. The trunk was accented with red dragonhide—Chinese Fireball, if she remembered correctly—and fitted with polished brass metalwork. It was beautiful, and she hadn’t even looked at the enchantments.

“You’ve a good eye, Ma’am,” said an elderly man with one eye and severely calloused hands. “I carved that one m’self, and young Charles Bole did the lions share of the magic. He’s a good lad—powerful for an enchanter.”

“It’s gorgeous . . .” Monica exclaimed in an awed whisper. “I don’t even know what it does and I’m already in love. Look at the details—the leaves and the little bumble bees! Magic’s a wonderful tool, but it can’t create art like this without honest talent.” She spun around, eyes darting over a cabinet with a complementary color scheme. She was so busy studying the merchandise that she missed the way the man’s eyes widened slightly, his expression softening as he watched her face. 

Ginny was browsing wistfully through the shop’s selection of student trunks, marveling over all the things her family couldn’t afford. The trunk she was using had once belonged to Bill and it was probably owned by one of her mum’s brothers before that. Molly Weasley nee Prewett would never forgive her for taking advantage of another family’s charity, but Monica made it all sound so reasonable; it was hard to say no.

The aforementioned Monica Granger was finally—finally—ready to open the trunk she’d been eyeballing for ten minutes. Walnut was a heavy wood, but the lid opened with barely a touch of resistance, rising to a perfect ninety-degree angle before propping itself open with two brass lid stays. There was a grid of apothecary drawers inside the trunk’s lid, and both the lower compartment and the drawers were deeper than they should be. The main compartment was partitioned for a variety of tools and vials—likely a standard brewer’s setup.

“There’s a trick to the other compartments,” Monica’s dour guide explained. He closed the lid, pressing a thumb over a specific bee before turning the key in the lock again. A single slat popped out on the trunk’s left side, revealing a spring-loaded handle and a hidden drawer. “There are tricks to opening each compartment. Right now, the locks are controlled by touch or rhythm, but you can add passwords with the right authorization. The wood’s imperturbable, and the whole trunk is warded against fire, flood, impact, and vermin.

“The top slats have portable shelves and one generous wardrobe—the whole thing’s featherlight, of course. Transport can be a hassle if you don’t have an elf to pop your baggage from here to there. Shrinking and spatial manipulation do not mix. I tell that to every customer, and somebody inevitably manages to make something explode. Don’t ask about Nicodemus Nott’s workaround—that crook will sell you shrinking expanded trunks, but his gimmick makes the enchantments extremely volatile—a distant sneeze could break a Nicodemus original, and his shop doesn’t offer repairs.

“Our enchantments last until the runes are damaged or the item loses power, which would only ever happen in a magical desert. Items with spatial enchantments can be placed inside a second expanded space—I don’t know where that old wives tale came from—you can stack expanded trunks together like Matryoshka dolls. As long as you don’t try to shrink them or alter the enchantments, you’re right as rain—they’re guaranteed to last twenty years without a tune up or your money back.”

Monica Granger was staring down at the expanded shelves with stars in her eyes. “You can make library trunks . . . ?”

The woodcarver let out a rich booming laugh as he realized she hadn’t heard anything past ‘portable shelves.’ By the time she finished shopping, Monica was ready to recruit Caius Lestrange. It turned out the man was almost a squib. He could charge runes and brew potions, but couldn’t pass fifth-year charms if his life depended on it. He had OWLs in Potions, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, History of Magic, and Muggle Studies, so he could technically carry a wand—he just couldn’t use it for more than a flashlight. Monica explained how she’d somehow missed her admittance letter, and only recently found out she was a witch. It was a different sort of problem, but they were both outsiders who appreciated the magic of creativity. 

The enamored orthodontist purchased the chrysanthemum trunk, its matching cabinet, and a steamer chest carved from white oak with sea dragons decorating the slats and panels. She also picked up several complex puzzle boxes for the children and invited Caius to have dinner with her family on the weekend. For the first time, Monica actively considered adding a stranger to their survival group. If they were preparing for the apocalypse, talented people like Caius were essential.

Before they left, the woodworker caught Ginny staring at one of the school trunks while she absently petted Pigwidgeon. 

“Take that one on the house, lass.” The man’s weathered face creased in a smile. “Your auntie’s given me enough custom for twelve school trunks, so let’s call it a promotional gift, shall we? Tell all your little friends to boycott Nicodemus.”

Ginny’s entire face lit up with a smile. “Thank you!! Thank you—thank you—thank you!!” The giddy girl jumped up down, causing her chinchilla to puff up in alarm. “Ohhh! I’m so happy! Fashionable robes and a brand new trunk to keep them in!! I don’t care if we have to muck the goat pens for a month, this is the best day ever!”

Caius gave the bubbly girl a surprisingly warm smile. “Right you are, miss. It’s certainly a day to remember.” 

Team ‘Smugglers’ as George dubbed their group failed to find an inter-dimensional trunk or a mirror of farseeing, but they did snag a nifty three-bedroom tent that looked passably muggle except for its metal chimney pipe. Harry found a wealth of kitchen supplies for Dobby, an enchanted rope that could lengthen, anchor, or release with specific command words (which even the original owner couldn’t remember), several bags with extended interiors, and one that seemed to be literally bottomless. He also found a silver pocket watch that purportedly came from the Potter Cottage in Godric’s Hollow. Dobby recognized the coat of arms from his own research into Harry’s family, so even if it was fake, it was still a link to his ancestors. The young orphan’s gut tightened as he imagined what other things might have been taken from his home. He’d never been there, himself, so he wasn't even sure if the structure was still standing. Bloodaxe probably knew if Harry remembered to ask.

Hermione found a plethora of old textbooks. Some were obviously from foreign schools while others were for subjects that must have been cut from the Hogwarts curriculum. Personally, Harry could do without Etiquette and Ethics in Magical Britain, but Technomancy: Magic in the Machine sounded really cool. The book was printed in Oregon State, so it must be from a school in the colonies. Harry had never spared much thought for wizards outside the United Kingdom, but of course, Hermione knew all about them.

“Oh, yes. This probably came from Ilvermorny or one of the smaller academies in the States. Their secrecy laws aren’t as restrictive over there, so wizards can experiment with muggle technology. That’s how the wizarding wireless was created. A Guide to Magical Education lists all eleven of the most famous magical schools around the world, and only three of them are in Europe, including Hogwarts. Of course, there are smaller day schools, tutors, and apprenticeships, too.”

Harry inhaled sharply. Hermione must have been researching potential transfer schools long before their conversation. Hermione added Magic of the Pharaohs and The Enchanter’s Handbook: Sixth Edition on top of the pile, before examining a set of auto-updating encyclopedias. It was missing volumes A, W, and N. Harry added a few books on broom construction and a battered fifth edition of Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Hermione gave him a flat look but he shrugged.

“What? I want to know about my family.”

“Fine. It makes sense to know your enemy, anyway.” She said, flipping through a few pages and frowning at the notes in the margins. “Look . . . a squib activist must have owned this.” She pointed out the handwritten names and dates crammed in beside the official family members.

“Some of them have a cause of death . . .” Harry pointed to a note that read: ‘Brendon Crabb: 1872-1883: Drowned in river during solstice ritual.’

“That’s awful . . . he was only eleven.”

Fred peeked over their shoulders. “Yeah, squibs have it bad in pureblood families. Look what happened with our second cousin and he’s a Prewett.”

“Imagine what would happen to a Malfoy or a Nott.” George said darkly.

“We’re buying this.” Hermione shut the book with a snap. “These people don’t deserve to be forgotten. I’ll write my own damn genealogy if I have to. My aunt tracked our family all the way back to the Black Plague. She’ll know how to break past this self-aggrandizing political tripe.”

“Good on you, little sister. Now, will you loan us seventy-three galleons, eleven sickles, and five knuts so we can purchase this stasis cabinet?” George said and slammed a rectangular leather case on the counter. Someone had obviously spilled some kind of acid on the exterior, and at least one of the compartments was broken. “It’s not pretty, but we should be able to fix it up with a little work. A brand new model would be almost twice the price of your average broomstick.”

“That’s at least four-hundred galleons,” Harry said for the only Smuggler who didn’t enjoy magical flight. Hermione rolled her eyes and opened the case, examining the rotating system of compartments. It was an ingenious system that used the legal expansion limitations in the most efficient way possible. Each individual compartment could be set to keep its contents in peak condition, whether that meant freezing it in stasis or allowing it to age naturally.

“Remarkable.” She said, spinning the belt and noticing that the previous owner had left quite a few compartments filled. “Yes, I’ll loan you the money if we can share it until you pay me back. I’d love to see how this works after I start ancient runes and arithmancy.”

George beamed and held out his hand for Hermione to shake. “You’ve got a deal. Now, how about this hat that makes you grow a six-foot beard?” They all laughed, and the twins ended up buying both the hat and a muggle fountain pen that turned the user’s writing into dirty limericks if you let your mind wander. Fred said he bought it to turn in to their father, but that was probably just the excuse the twins planned to give their mother if she caught them with the pen.

“They’re educational, anyway.” Fred insisted when Hermione questioned the purchase as they left ‘Rubik Square’s Steals & Deals.’ “Think how much we could learn about spell-craft from this pen.” All three of them laughed and began discussing how they could improve the design and who deserved to get the resulting products for Christmas.

“Well, here’s our last stop.” Fred sniggered, pointing at a dilapidated sign over a crooked, red door. The faded black letters literally said, ‘The Last Stop.’

“Very funny.” Hermione deadpanned as she fiddled with one of the expanded bags. Harry had offered her the bottomless one, but she refused, stating that it was probably illegal, so he’d taken it for himself.

“Are you sure it’s really open?” Harry tried to rub the grime off one of the windows, but all he could see was an old gramophone and a stuffed iguana. Both twins immediately pointed to a signboard that was clearly flipped to the word, ‘Open.’ Hermione laughed and entered the shop.

A bell chimed as a breeze stirred the stale air. Harry looked past Hermione, but he didn’t see the usual cracked cauldrons, mismatched chess sets, and dusty mirrors, and there was no sign of the iguana or the gramophone. Instead, there was a sleek white counter. It looked almost like a sleeker version of the hotel he visited while Uncle Vernon was trying to outrun Harry’s acceptance letter, except there was nobody at the desk and there was no bell to ring for service. Instead, there was a lonely yellow ticket dispenser sitting in the center of the counter. Harry looked around for instructions, but there weren’t any signs or fliers—there wasn’t even a company logo.

“Lee Jordan, you lying piece of scum.” Fred crossed his arms looking down the adjoining hallway with narrowed eyes. “He said he found a portable sauna here for fifty galleons.”

“Maybe someone bought the shop and they haven’t fixed the exterior yet,” Harry said.

“No, it seems like a hidden portal—like the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Fred, you remember that broken telephone box don’t you?” George said.

“You think we need to take a ticket to move forward?” Fred mused and pulled one from the dispenser. A gold number thirteen appeared in his hand, and a chime sounded from the far end of the connecting hallway. The twins shared a look, shrugged simultaneously, and moved toward the sound.

“Harry,” Hermione said nervously, “Are you sure this is safe? What if it’s a black market or some kind of den of iniquity.”

Harry glanced back at her as he hurried after the twins. “Well, so far, we haven’t met a troll, a three-headed dog, a hoard of acromantula, or a fifty-foot basilisk—so, we can honestly say this den of whatever is safer than Hogwarts.”

“Give it time.” Hermione laughed with a teasing smile. “Knowing us, this is probably some twisted interpretation of Hotel California.” Harry didn’t know what to say to that. His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what TV program or movie she was talking about, but he came up blank. Hermione signed. “It’s a song by The Eagles about a hotel you can never leave.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, maybe we should have propped the door open,” Harry teased as they approached their destination. It was an elevator—a very posh elevator that reminded Harry of fancy high-rises he’d seen in Aunt Petunia’s magazines—shiny gold doors with plush black carpet, polished wood paneling, and a single spotless floor length mirror. Four pairs of wide eyes stared back at them from their reflection. “This much grandeur is making me nervous, though.”

“Wands out?” Fred asked, pulling his own out of his inventory.

“Might as well.” George agreed, and the others all followed suit. With some trepidation, the party of four held their breath and stepped through the open doors. There weren’t any buttons or levers or anything else you might find in a fancy elevator. Instead, there was a single gold slot where the control panel would usually be located. With a shrug, Fred lifted the ticket to the slot and inserted it. The machine buzzed sharply, and they all jumped. Fred tried it again with the same result.

“Give it here.” George chided, turning the ticket around and sticking it in again. It played a sad melody and spat out the golden ticket. “What the hell?”

“Let me see it.” Hermione said, holding the ticket up to the light. “No watermark or obvious damage. The slot’s too thin for a credit card or an ID badge. It has to go in here.” She said and tried it again. The elevator played a different melody, this time with steel drums. “Tsk! This is a waste of time. I know we agreed to meet up with everyone at Flourish and Blotts, but there’s no reason we can’t go early.”

“We’re not ditching the mysterious elevator, Hermione. Honestly, it looks like it should fit . . .” The minute Harry pushed the ticket into the slot, the mechanism whirred smoothly, and the doors slid closed.

A soft male voice spoke from the ceiling, and all four passengers jumped with fright. “Welcome to ‘The Last Stop.’ For a safe journey to the other side and a guaranteed return trip, please mind the following rules: (1) do not ingest food or drink, even if it’s offered by your host, (2) do not accept gifts from the shades or offer your own in turn, and (3) when you leave, don’t look back. Have a joyous day.”

Fred and George glanced at each other and then at Harry, who sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The elevator shuddered briefly and began to descend.

“I should have known.” He muttered, glancing apologetically from the twins to Hermione. “Death supposedly sponsored my access to the system.”

“You couldn’t have . . .” Fred started and George finished the sentence, “. . . mentioned that earlier?”

“I didn’t want to sound crazy.” Harry rubbed the back of his head. “What does the FAQ say under ‘Why was I chosen?’”

Fred snorted. “Because Ron wanted me to see his stupid floating mailbox.”

“Because you wanted my help and didn’t want me to think you were crazy.” Hermione added. “You know, we might get to see Fluffy after all.”

“Why would Fluffy be here?” Harry asked, and the sincerity in his eyes made her sure he genuinely didn’t know.

“Honestly, why do I even bother.” Hermione threw up both hands in exasperation. “The guardian of the underworld is a three-headed dog, also known as Cerberus. Orpheus went on a quest to save his dead wife and put the dog to sleep with a type of harp, which is exactly what Quirrel did to get past Fluffy. Now, get to your point.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off. Well, I was serious about one of my ancestors being best mates with Death. It’s one of the reasons he picked me. I’m also like marked because of Voldemort or whatever. I don’t remember the exact way it was written, but it implied I’d have been hit by another killing curse if the system hadn’t been implemented.”

“Harry . . .” Hermione started, but the elevator dinged before she could say anything more. The gilded doors slid open to reveal a hallway tiled in polished obsidian. Purple flames flickered on ornate golden plinths, set in even intervals along mirrored black walls. The reflected flames repeated in perfect symmetry, fading endlessly into the black decor. At the far end of the hall, an ivory throne stood stark against the blackness, flanked on either side with shadowy figures.

Death himself reclined on the throne, eating gobs of something that looked disturbingly like bloody flesh. He was a tall, lean-muscled man with long jet-black hair and olive skin. Burning viridian eyes met Harry’s gaze, and the entire landscape changed, sucking him forward into an endless void that flashed with visions of entropic decay. Worlds ended, stars collided, galaxies snuffed out like guttering candles—young or old, bold or timid, soldier or civilian—everyone felt cold, Stygian iron in the end. Harry choked on a scream, trapping the sound in his throat as he willed his eyes shut. He swallowed, ignoring the acrid taste of bile on his tongue. This wasn’t the first time he’d looked death in the eye. Seeing him here was no different than confronting Tom Riddle, Quirrel, or the basilisk. He was a Gryffindor, and he refused to give in to fear. Hands curled into white-knuckled fists, Harry took a step forward, then another, and another, until he was standing mere yards from death and his horrible chair. Up close, it looked like carved bone, but it was raw and untreated with bits of flesh and sinew still hanging on in places. Harry swallowed again and tried not to think about where the throne came from or how it was made.

“Death is never pretty, Harry.” A whisper cut the silence. “I can wear fancy masks, but something of the truth leaks into every glamor.” His attention shifted to the other three humans in the hall. Hermione looked like she was close to moving, but Fred and George were clearly screaming at the top of their lungs, though no sound made it past their lips. “Forgive me, but I find screams so very gauche. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Frederick Weasley, George Weasley, I bid you welcome.” As soon as the last word was spoken, both twins slumped to the floor. Hermione merely staggered, gritting her teeth as she fought to hide the tremors in her limbs. She walked up to stand with Harry, resolute and firm in her support. Harry took her hand and held it tightly as he glanced back at the unconscious Weasleys. 

“A - Are they alright?” He asked in a dry rasp. 

“They’ll be fine. It was their first time looking me in the eye, but I dare say they’ll conquer that hurdle soon enough. Now,” his tone shifted to a smooth businesslike tenor, “I’m only allowed to meet you this once until certain conditions are met, but I hope to impress upon you that this is neither a dream nor a delusion.”

The young wizard gave a stiff nod. “Y - yes, sir.”

“Don’t be so formal, Harry. Pick a moniker for me and make yourself at home.” Death’s smile sent a chill racing down Harry’s spine. The esoteric personification waved a gloved hand and the black hall swiftly changed into a comfortable lounge decorated with luxurious victorian furnishings and dark blue upholstery. 

The shadows next to the throne shifted slightly as Harry sat on a comfortable sofa. He took a serving of tea and cakes from a platter even if he wasn’t allowed to eat them. Aunt Petunia always said refusing hospitality was the height of rudeness—not that she expected he would ever need that information. “You don’t look much like The Grim Reaper.”

Death’s face seemed to blur for a second, and Harry caught a hint of a cloak before his appearance settled back into the handsome Grecian gentleman.

“Well, isn't it obvious?” Hermione settled in a chair to his right. "He's Hades."

“Oh, so you know him?” Harry teased, recognizing the name from his elementary school reading. Hermione pursed her lips and punched his arm sharply. “Ow!” 

The entity chuckled under his breath and poured himself a glass of dark red wine. The plate of red . . . stuff . . . was sitting on a low table in front of the fire, and Harry could now see it was actually some kind of fruit. 

“Death, Hades, Enma, Donn, Anubis, Davy Jones—call me anything you like, as long as you do speak to me on occasion. Now, ask your questions so we can get the hard ones out of the way.” 

“Can you remove the piece of Tom Riddle that’s stuck in Harry’s head?” Hermione immediately asked.

“No.” Death’s eyes seemed to literally burn for a moment before he took a gulp of wine. “I’m not allowed to interfere with that disgusting perversion. Riddle is marked by another power, and all the damn non-interference laws were grandfathered into the new accords. So, no, I can’t help Harry with his infestation. You’re making progress in the right direction, but that’s all I can say.”

Harry bit his lip, wondering if he should ask the question he really cared about. Gathering his courage he lifted his eyes. “Would you let my parents come back if I give up some of my stars? You can take as many as you need—I just want something more than names and faces in a handful of photos.” 

Hades reached out, gently brushing soft gloved fingers against the boy’s tear-stained cheeks. He paused, thinking carefully before he spoke. “I can’t do anything about your mother. She bound herself to her fate when she cast the protection that saved your life. James Charlus Potter, on the other hand, might be a possibility.” 

Both children gasped, and Hermione clapped both hands over her mouth in shock. 

“You won’t be able to retrieve him yet.” Hades cautioned before turning to Hermione. “Miss Granger, the shades tell me you know the story of Orpheus. I don’t suppose you recall his parentage and the conditions upon which he was able to return his wife to life?” 

Hermione glanced at Harry, who stared back with a desperate light in his eyes. “He - He was the son of Apollo and Calliope. He was supposed to hold his wife’s hand and walk to the surface, but if he faltered or looked back, even once, her shade would stay in the underworld forever.”

“That is correct. I do wish Athena had survived—you would have been the perfect candidate for her.” Hades sighed, his wistful smile almost warm in the muted firelight. Hermione blushed and dropped her eyes to her fidgeting fingers. 

“The important bit in that story is Orpheus’s divine blood. He was able to withstand the humors of my realm and make his way home without my assistance. That is the trial you must overcome, but if you want a chance to save your father, you need to find a way to shed your mortality. I don’t recommend tearing your soul into pieces,” he teased, “but there is a certain trio of relics that will give me an excuse to grant you immortality. You already own one. The other two are held by the chosen of other powers, so I can’t tell you what or where they are, but you have always been fated to collect them.”

“Oh!” Hermione sucked in a breath and glanced over at Harry before pulling out her notepad and jotting several clues down. Harry had an odd feeling he’d heard something about family relics before, but he was wary of reaching too far into his memory because he never knew what exact information the spells were repressing. 

“There are more questions you should ask, but they’ll have to wait until your mind is clear. Today, I just wanted to greet you and let you be seen by Ignatius and all the other shades who are anxious for news of your life.” The man paused, cocking his head as though listening while the shadows by his chair flickered in a way that didn’t match up with the firelight. “No, Fleumont. I know you’re concerned, but it will do no good to tell him now. Harry, your grandfather has a few quests he would like you to perform, but first, your first you must free yourself from Arachne’s web.”

New Quest: Arachne’s Bane (Part One) 

Difficulty: Easy

Reward : 500 EXP, Access to quest: Arachne’s Bane (Part Two), Access to quest: A Grim Betrayal (Part One), Access to quest: Shards of the Lich

Deadline: September 1, 1993 

Your patron power has issued a mandatory quest. Free yourself from Arachne’s influence. All threads must be purged by the indicated deadline to receive the full reward. You may earn +50 bonus experience points for each person cleansed of the spider’s taint. Failing this quest may result in mental enslavement and other dire consequences. Details and progress will be recorded in the quest section of your system notebook.

New Quest: Unite Death's Hallows

Difficulty: Nightmare

Reward : 100,000 EXP, 500 G, Conditional Immortality, Access to quest: Orpheus’s Gauntlet

Deadline: None

You have been given an optional quest. Identify and unite the three divine relics granted to your ancestor and his two brothers. You currently possess: **Ignatius’s Cloak of Invisibility**. You must acquire two additional relics to complete this quest. Details and progress will be recorded in the quest section of your system notebook.

Harry blinked, shivered, and wiped away the prompts. Hades took a sip of wine and leaned back in his chair, glancing first at Hermione and then the Weasley twins, who were beginning to stir. “The first quest can be shared with your group, but rewards will be tailored for individual contribution. The second is for you alone, Harry. Be wary of sharing details with those you don’t fully trust—ah, Messrs Weasley and Weasley, how nice of you to join us at last.”

“Merlin’s soggy sack, did someone let a hippogriff trample my spine?” George stretched both arms toward the ceiling and his back let out an audible pop. “I feel like death warmed over.”

“Appropriate.” Fred laughed, putting up a brave front to hide his jitters as his eyes took in the unfamiliar room. “How did we get in here, then? I recognize the throne of the damned, but the rest is new.”

“This is my realm,” Hades explained patiently. “Everything is as I wish it to be, apart from a few divine regulations. For instance, you’re not allowed to see the shades congregating at my left and right. Your uncles are here, however. They are both proud of your smashing success as mischief makers. Ah, more quests—honestly, I can issue them later. We really don’t have much time left, but fine—this is the last batch.”

New Quest: The Prewett Legacy

Difficulty: Easy

Reward : 200 EXP, 5000 G, Civilian Class: Entrepreneur, Deed to the Prewett Plantation

Deadline: None

You have been issued an optional quest. Locate the hidden cash of gold in the ruins of the Prewett Plantation. Difficulty may increase if you fail to complete it before stage two of system integration. Details and progress will be recorded in the quest section of your system notebook.

New Quest: The Marauder’s Map

Difficulty: Infantile

Reward : 100 EXP, 500 G, Various Pranking Goods of Questionable Legality, Access to the Repeatable Quest: Mischief Managed

Deadline: None

You have been issued an optional quest. Mister Prongs has noted that you and your brother possess a certain item he helped create during his time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His son is currently in his third year, and could use a bit of help skirting authority. Pass the artifact to its rightful owner to complete this quest. Details and progress will be recorded in the quest section of your system notebook.

Fred blinked once, twice, then fixed his eyes on his twin. “George, I do believe our good friend Mister Prongs is in this very room along with Uncle Gideon and Uncle Fabian. They’ve given us quests.”

“Yes, and I suppose you deserve a small token for withstanding my gaze as well.” Hades mused, tapping his fingers on his knee as he thought. “George is easy. He’ll get access to the system, but won’t be able to extend privileges to anyone else. I’ll fix Fred’s stasis cabinet and double its capacity, Hermione may take one volume from my private collection, and Harry . . .” He paused, examining the young mortal’s expression. Hades held out a hand and a swarm of shadows coalesced into an ancient leather-bound book. “This . . . is the Potter Family Grimoire. It was lost in the fire that took your paternal grandparents and your ancestral manor, but as Fleumont, your paternal grandfather, pointed out, items burned in a funeral pyre are technically within my purview, so I am allowed to return it to its rightful owner. You should also know that the watch you bought today truly is a family heirloom. It belonged to Charlus, your grandfather’s brother. He gave it to your father when he turned seventeen.”

Harry smiled, taking the watch out of his pocket and caressed the silver carving with his fingertips. His eyes prickled as he looked into the shadows, wishing he could see all the shades who had come to see him. Was his mother there? His grandfather obviously was, but what about his grandmother? He didn’t even know her name. Tears scalded the young wizard’s cheeks as he imagined all the faces from the Mirror of Erised hiding among the shadows. “Thank you. I wish I knew you all better. Dad, I’ll try to get you out. I doubt you want to leave Mum, but I just . . . can I just be selfish for once?” Harry nearly choked on the words, unable to express the soul-wrenching need that lived in his heart. Hermione wrapped her arms around him, and a few seconds later Fred and George did the same.

Several blurred humanoid figures broke their silent vigil to join the group, casting their descendants into shadow. Harry felt their embrace as vague flickers of a life long past—a time of happy cuddles, fuzzy blankets, and tickling strands of long red hair. It was nothing like the chill prickle of ghosts; if anything, it was the exact opposite. The shades were warm and safe, and Harry almost didn’t want to leave. 

Hades coughed lightly, and one of the figures jumped as though startled. Waving blurry arms, it ushered the rest of the dead back to the corners. Harry almost ran after them, but Hermione and the twins held him back. “Don’t worry. You’ll see them again, little raven.” Hades smiled, setting his wine on a side table as he stood. He flicked his fingers and the twins jumped in surprise as they both got notifications. “But, we’re out of time.”

George beamed, sending Fred, Harry, and Hermione a PM that said nothing but the word, ‘HA!’ in large bold letters. 

“Brilliant!” Fred pulled the stasis cabinet out of his inventory, cradling it in his arms like a newborn baby. 

“That leaves you, child of wisdom. We only have a moment, so I’ll narrow your options.” A row of books appeared in the air before Hermione and her eyes grew wide as she read the titles: Ode of the Anvil: A Guide to Magical Smithing by Bryant Hammerfall, The Way of the Wand by Giovanni J. Ollivander, Secrets of the Darkest Arts, The Fall of the Magi, and Wielding the Astral Heart by Lewellyn Wolfe. “Half of these were lost during our long sleep, but they’re all rare, controversial, and very valuable.”

Hermione licked her lips, setting the smithing guide and The Fall of the Magiaside. As much as she wanted them, there were more important things she needed to worry about. The Way of the Wand was tempting, but there was still a chance she might find more about wands at the bookstore, and Ollivander might be more open-minded once he realized how many wands all the new wizards would need. That left one book that radiated pure darkness and another that looked like it might be bound in unicorn hide. “I think . . .” Hermione glanced at Harry, who returned a knowing look. Either volume might hold information on whatever Voldemort did to the diary and Harry’s scar. “Is one of these still available on Earth?”

“Yes, though you’ll find it difficult to access.” Hades indicated Secrets of the Darkest Arts. A loud ding sounded behind them and all four humans spun around with their wands raised. It was the elevator, gold doors gliding open as it chimed an ominous warning. Hermione chewed her lip, moving her fingers from one tome to the other. In a rare gut-instinct decision, she grabbed Wielding the Astral Heart and sank back into her chair, shivering as the other volumes faded away.

“Excellent choice.” Hades nodded. “Especially as it appears we’re out of time.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione bowed to the deity before pushing herself up onto shaky legs. The boys echoed her sentiments, and Fred moved to steady the shaken member of their party. Meeting the eyes of Death was one thing, but choosing one rare book out of five was like being asked to save only one child from a burning building.

Harry pinned his eyes on the shadows. “Bye Dad! Bye Mum! Bye Grandad and Grandmum—both sets if you’re there! Oh, and Mister Ignotus—your cloak is really awesome!” 

The shadows waved, jumping up and down as though saying goodbye, and Harry grinned, feeling better than he had since Hagrid told him he was a wizard. He wasn’t alone, he had a chance to rescue his father, and someday he could actually meet the rest of his family. 

“Goodbye, little Raven.” Death’s voice echoed as the room faded away. Gold light spilled from the open elevator, staining the void with a stray slash of color. Harry’s shadow stretched like pulled taffy as he walked through the open portal, leaving the netherworld behind. “Fly away and don’t look back . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I just realized I really ought to show Harry's reaction to his stat growth, so I'll probably add a scene somewhere in chapter two. Once it's finished, I'll link it in the chapter notes. Thank you for the kudos and comments!_
> 
> _Also! Quick question for readers: **Who would you like to see in Death's faction?**  
>  I have plans for some characters, but I'd love to know who you think Harry should invite._
> 
> __**Next Chapter is written and will be up on Jan 12 (or the day after based on my current pattern of tardiness.)**   
> 


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